SEALED    ORDERS 


BY 

ELIZABETH    STUART    PHELPS, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  GATES  AJAR,"  "  THE  STORY  OF  AVIS," 
ETC.,  ETC. 


BOSTON: 

HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  AND  COMPANY. 
Btoemfce 

1879. 


COPYRIGHT,  1879, 
BY  ELIZABETH   STUART  PHELPS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 

ELECTROTYPE!)    AND    PRINTED     BY 
II.   0.   HOUGIITON   AND   COMPANY. 


DEDICATION. 

TO—       — . 

HOLD  them,  Dear,  these  gathered  pages, 

Fugitives  reclaimed  and  ordered 

Faltering  on  a  doubtful  errand, 

Seeking  to  renew  old  friendships  — 

Saddest  of  all  human  venture, 

Gladdest  of  all  human  welcome. 

Hold  us  ;  hold  the  sent  and  sender; 

Touch  us,  for  your  hands  are  gentle. 

When  the  eager  lip  is  silent, 

When  the  message  is  unspoken 

That  the  heart  of  health  would  render, 

And  the  years  wait  for  their  meaning, 

And  the  hands  of  life  are  folded; 

Turn  we  to  the  tried  affections, 

To  the  faithful  of  the  faithful 

That  we  number  counting  golden 

Rings  upon  the  bridal  finger 

Of  the  soul     .... 

Turn  we  to  the  truest  loving, 

And  the  tenderest  reproving, 

And  the  cheerfulest  inspiring, 

And  the  loyalest  upholding 

That  the  faith  of  friend  has  offered 

To  the  tale  or  to  the  teller; 

.     .     .     .     Turn  we,  Dear,  to  you! 

Hold  us,  for  your  heart  is  gentle. 

M504966 


NOTE. 


MANY  of  these  stories  are  reprinted  from  Harper's  Monthly, 
the  New  York  Independent,  Scribner's  Monthly,  and  the  At 
lantic  Monthly. 

E.  S.  P. 

EASTERN  POINT,  GLOUCESTER,  August,  1879. 


CONTENTS. 


SEALED  ORDERS         .        .        .        .  .        .  1 

OLD  MOTHER  GOOSE      .........          27 

THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT 48 

THE  TRUE  STORY  or  GUENEVER 65 

DOHERTY- .        .        .        .        .81 

THE  VOYAGE  OP  THE  "  AMERICA  "      .        .        .        .        .          92 

WRECKED  IN  PORT    .        .        .        .     -  .  .        •        .     114 

RUNNING  THE  RISK       .        .        .  .        .        .        •        129 

LONG,  LONG  AGO      .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .154 

SINCE  I  DIED  .        .         .         .         .         ...        •        '         168 

A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT .        .        •     176 

NUMBER  13      ..        .        . 201 

Two  HUNDRED  AND  Two 227 

CLOTH  OF  GOLD 253 

SAINT  CALIGULA 281 

Miss  MILDRED'S  FRIEND 296 

NEBLITT  .        •        -322 


SEALED  ORDERS. 


I  SUPPOSE  there  are  folks  that  see  the  reasons  of  things. 
But  I  was  never  one  of  them.  Made  so,  perhaps.  Made 
to  take  life  out  in  that  way.  But  I  don't  know.  It  isn't 
easy  to  say.  Nor  it  has  n't  been  easy  to  take  ;  not  very. 

In  a  measure  I  don't  mind  talking  to  you,  Tom  Brown. 
It 's  with  humans  as  it  is  with  other  cattle  out  in  these  here 
great  solitudes,  —  they  herd  together  close  for  company.  It 
seems  such  a  lonesome  thing  to  live.  Don't  it  ever  strike 
you,  Tom,  as  a  lonesome  thing  to  be  alive  ?  Since  we  Ve 
took  to  this  dig-out  I  've  felt  it  particularly  keen.  It 's  this 
ugly  cough  that 's  catched  me,  in  part,  maybe. 

I  feel  sick  most  all  the  time.  A  man  's  apt  to  be  lone 
like  when  he  's  sickly.  I  've  been  well  off,  too,  compara 
tively,  since  you  and  I  have  messed  together.  I  'm  free  to 
say  I  'd  like  you  better  if  your  language  was  n't  rough,  odd 
times,  as  I  've  often  told  you.  I  suppose  your  heart 's  got 
a  rough  side  to  't,  or  the  words  would  n't  roughen  out  o  't ; 
but  ye  've  never  turned  it  onto  me,  if  there  is.  I  don't 
like  roughness,  —  like  a  woman,  may  be.  That  set  I  got 
into  up  to  Downer's  shaft  called  me  the  old  woman,  some 
times.  I  did  n't  stay  at  Downer's  a  great  while.  I  had  n't 
any  luck  there.  The  only  stone  I  sighted  was  too  hard  for 
me  to  crack.  I  sold  it  to  Jeb  Pekins  for  ten  dollars  on  his 
note  of  hand. 

I  spoke  to  you,  didn't  I,  about  the  reasons  of  things 
and  the  difference  in  folks?  Now  I  began  to  the  very  b'e- 
1 


2  SEALED    OEDERS. 

ginning  the  way  I  've  kept  up  since.  I  was  the  youngest  of 
seven,  born  onto  a  three-acre  farm  and  a  Connecticut  stock? 
You  know  the  Connecticut  stock  ?  Slow,  and  full  of  medi 
tations  before  they  do  a  thing;  when  the  crop  fails,  sit 
round  the  tobacco  barns  and  talk  it  over ;  sit  up  straight  in 
meetin' ;  have  a  serious  manner,  like  revivals,  on  the  price 
of  corn  and  school-books ;  not  a  spry  stock ;  sleepy,  I  think, 
like  the  great  river-flats,  and  as  hard  to  cultivate.  The  sev 
enth  child  comes  hard  in  Connecticut.  I  come  hard,  very. 
Five  years  between  me  and  Abi'thar,  the  next  boy.  I 
was  n't  expected  nor  looked  for,  and  there  'd  been  a  drought, 
and  the  season  was  dull  in  every  particular.  I  've  heard 
tell  how  my  mother  cried,  and  father  said,  says  he :  — 

"  I  've  edicated  four  "  (there  were  six,  but  two  were  girls) 
—  "I  've  edicated  four,  and  this  one  must  rough  it  best  he 
can." 

"  I  can't  afford  him,"  says  father,  shaking  his  head  at  the 
cradle  (I've  heard  tell).  "  He  must  shift  for  himself,  poor 
creetur' !  I  never  thought  it  possible,"  says  father,  "  that 
I  could  have  another  boy." 

I  was  christened  Finis.  It 's  a  foreign  word,  and  means 
"  the  end."  Father  got  it  of  Abi'thar  and  took  a  notion  to  it. 
Abi'thar  was  put  to  his  book  quite  young,  and  he  studied 
all  the  foreign  tongues.  I  used  to  cry  sometimes  nights  to 
think  I  'd  got  it.  I  did  n't  know  any  other  boy  with  such 
a  name.  But  I  've  got  used  to  it  now.  The  boys  took  a 
shine  to  it  out  here.  Peterson  asked  me  if  it  was  French 
or  Hebrew. 

I  'm  not  an  imagining  man,  Tom  Brown,  nor  given  to 
notions  and  fancies  and  imaginations,  I  don't  think ;  but 
that  took  hold  of  me  from  the  very  start,  somehow  or 
Another,  that  I  was  n't  wanted  nor  desired  to  be  at  all.  I 
used  to  think  about  it  when  I  was  a  youngster  a  sight.  I 
had  n't  no  chance  to  forget  it.  Mother,  she  made  me  re 
member  it ;  if  it  was  n't  for  anything  else,  for  the  way  she 


SEALED   ORDEKS.  3 

sat  and  cried  in  patching  up  my  little  close.  None  of  the 
other  boys'  were  ever  patched,  up  so  much.  Father  used 
to  talk  a  sight  to  me  about  how  much  I  cost,  and  that  he 
was  poor,  and  that  I  must  earn  my  own  way,  young  and 
early.  The  boys  and  the  girls,  they  made  me  feel  it  in  a 
sight  of  curious  ways.  I  think  I  was  a  sort  of  willing  lit 
tle  cheersome  chap,  but  I  used  to  wonder  how  these  boys 
and  girls  could  find  so  many  chores  and  arrants  to  be  done. 
Children  take  a  trick  of  things  up  from  their  elders  mighty 
fast. 

The  most  I  remember  of  our  folks  is  what  dreadful  sav 
ing  folks  they  were.  And  when  Connecticut  folks  set  out 
to  save,  it's  a -savin'  sight,  I  tell  you,  Tom.  Sometimes  I 
had  a  wonder  how  they  ever  could  have  done  it  if  it  had  n't 
been  for  me.  If  father  wanted  to  save  seventy -five  cents 
on  a  man's  hire,  he  put  me  at  it,  —  mowing,  berrying, 
weeding,  tending  caows.  I  drove  a  plow  before  I  was  up  to 
that  little  lad  of  Peterson's  shoulders,  that  he  brought  down 

^ 

here  last  Christmas,  —  maybe  you  remember.  A  likely  lit 
tle  lad.  I  was  glad  to  know  Peterson  schooled  him  a  little. 
I  was  glad  to  see  him  on  a  Christmas  time.  But  when  I 
patted  his  head  he  shied  off.  Children  don't  take  to  me. 
Maybe  I  don't  understand  their  ways.  I  lived  so  different 
when  I  was  a  little  child.  I  don't  see  a  little  chap  brought 
up  just  as  I  was  very  often. 

It  was  just  so  with  all  of  'em  ;  don't  you  see  ?  If  mother 
felt  tuckered  out,  and  she  generally  did  (most  Connecticut 
women  folks  are  tuckered  out)  —  if  mother  felt  a  little 
peaked,  she  had  me  in  to  do  the  housework.  She  learned 
me  to  sweep,  and  putter  round,  and  wash  the  dishes,  like  a 
girl.  That 's  how  I  came  to  know  when  you  put  too  much 
salaratus  in  your  johnny-cake,  and  my  flapjack  receipt  I 
got  from  her,  sitting  on  a  stool  and  turning  of  'em  over,  and 
trying  not  to  let  the  tears  fall  in,  —  for  I  'd  picked  up  a  little 
old  picture-book  of  Abi'thar's,  that  I  'd  set  my  heart  on  try- 


4  SEALED   ORDERS. 

ing  to  make  the  pictures  out.  I  was  eight  years  old,  and 
I  'd  never  been  to  school,  when  she  took  the  notion  to  have 
me  turn  the  flapjacks. 

There  was  one  of  the  girls  that  never  tried  to  save  any 
thing  out  of  me.  That  was  the  second  one  — Susan.  Susan 
come  next  to  Abi'thar.  She  was  six  years  older  than  me. 
She  had  a  soft  way  with  her,  Susan  had ;  lightish  eyes  and 
hair  like  Peterson's  little  lad.  She  used  to  come  into  my 
loft.  I  slept  in  the  loft.  She  come  up  nights  and  tucked 
me  up.  Seems  to  me  she  used  to  kiss  me.  There  did  n't 
a  great  many  folks  kiss  me.  It  was  Susan  that  learned  me 
to  say  my  prayers.  One  day,  I  know,  says  she  to  me  :  — 

"  Finis,  would  you  like  to  go  to  school  ?  " 

For  I  'd  never  been.  I  said  I  was  afraid  they  could  n't 
afford  to  send  me  to  school.  The  school-books  cost  so 
much,  and  who  would  turn  the  flapjacks  ?  But  Susan  said 
it  was  time  I  went,  and  said  she  'd  turn  the  flapjacks.  She 
said  I  was  to  go  some  time  or  other,  and  that  it  was  quite 
high  time.  So,  when  the  winter  term  set  in  and  work  was 
dull,  she  says  one  day,  again :  — 

"  Finis,  you  're  to  go  to  school  to-morrow." 

I  said  she  was  very  kind,  and  I  wanted  to  kiss  her ;  but 
I  did  n't  like  to  ask.  But  she  kissed  me  twice  ;  she  did  n't 
wait  for  me  to  ask.  We  were  sitting  out  on  the  chopping- 
block,  behind  the  little  hickory  woodpile.  It  was  a  little 
pile,  but  tough  ;  it  had  taken  me  a  great  while  to  finish  that 
pile.  Susan  used  to  come  out  sometimes  when  they  were 
baking  cookies,  with  a  hot  one,  and  lay  it  on  the  block  and 
run.  So  then  I  went  to  school,  and  I  staid  two  months. 

Eh  ?  Yes,  that  was  all.  I  never  went  to  school  only 
those  two  months.  The  other  boys  ?  I  told  you  the  other 
boys  all  went.  They  did  n't  try  to  save  out  of  the  other 
boys.  One  of  my  brothers  has  written  a  book.  I  saw  it 
in  a  newspaper  the  other  day,  and  that  it  had  sold  three 
thousand  copies.  I  'd  like  to  see  the  book.  I  sent  for  it  to 


SEALED   ORDERS.  5 

the  Crossings,  but  I  don't  look  to  get  it.     I  sent  a  dollar 
bill  by  Pekins,  when  he  was  here,  to  get  it  with. 

So  I  went  to  school  two  months.  When  my  time  was 
up,  Susan  says  to  me,  one  night,  says  she  :  — 

"  You  're  not  to  go  to  school  again,  Finis,  after  this." 

I  says  :  "  Not  any  more  at  all  ?  " 

For  I  loved  my  book.  I  don't  think  I  ever  was  so  com 
fortable  in  my  mind  as  I  was  when  I  was  at  my  book  those 
two  months.  I  'd  well-nigh  forgotten  that  I  was  the  last  of 
seven,  and  could  n't  be  wanted  nor  desired  nor  afforded,  till 
Susan  spoke. 

Says  Susan  :  "  No.  Never  again."  And  I  saw  two  tears 
roll  out  of  Susan's  eyes.  So,  when  I  saw  the  tears,  I  says : 

"  Well,  never  mind,  Susan."  For  I  could  n't  bear  to 
make  her  cry  for  me.  I  had  n't  ever  seen  anybody  cry  for 
me  before,  —  only  mother,  when  she  mended  up  my  little 
close,  far  back  as  I  could  remember.  So  I  said  :  — 

"  Never  mind,  Susan,"  and  sat  up  straight,  as  if  I  did  n't 
and  I  should  n't  mind. 

"  You  're  to  be  put  to  work,"  says  Susan.  "  They  can't 
afford  to  keep  you  at  your  book." 

Says  I :   u  Susan,  do  I  cost  a  great  deal  ?  " 

Says  Susan,  after  a  minute  :   "  I  don't  know,  my  dear." 

Then  says  I :  "  Susan,  do  I  cost  so  much  more  than  the 
other  boys  ?  " 

But  Susan  only  said  she  did  n't  know,  and  cried  a  little 
more.  Then  says  I,  once  more  :  "  Susan,  do  you  think  if 
father  'd  set  as  much  by  me  as  he  does  by  the  other  boys 
that  I  'd  have  cost  him  so  much  more  ?  " 

But  Susan  says :  "  My  dear !  my  dear !  I  don't  know 
anything  about  it !  " 

Then  says  I  (I  remember  plain  enough,  I  says)  :  "  No 
body  sets  as  much  by  me  as  they  do  by  the  other  boys,  Su 
san." 

I  had  a  kind  of  drawling,  slow  way  of  talking  when  ] 


6  SEALED    ORDERS. 

was  a  little  chap,  not  unlike  my  manners  now.  I  can  hear 
myself  just  how  I  brought  it  out. 

"  I  set  more  by  you,"  says  Susan,  "  than  I  do  by  all  the 
boys." 

And  we  never  says  anything  more  about  it  or  about  an 
education  from  that  day.  And  I  was  put  to  work  the  next 
week  come  a  Monday  morning.  I  was  ten  years  old.  I  've 
often  thought  of  it  how  Susan  said  she  set  so  much  by  me. 
Susan  was  the  only  living  creetur'  that  ever  set  by  me  to 
that  extent.  And  she  died  next  June.  She  had  the  gal- 
lopin'  consumption  and  died  in  twenty  days.  They  forgot 
to  call  me  in  when  she  was  dyin<j,  for  I  was  out  drawino- 

t/          Z5?  O 

water  for  the  caows.  All  the  other  boys  were  there.  It 
was  at  sunset  of  a  June  day.  When  I  come  in  to  wash  up 
and  go  up  and  see  her,  Abi'thar  come  down  and  told  me 
she  was  dead. 

They  buried  her  over  to  the  first  church  buryin'  ground. 
I  was  very  lonesome  after  Susan  died. 

Then  I  had  a  puppy.  I  think  it  was  after  Susan  died 
that  I  had  that  puppy.  It  was  a  measly  little  black-and- 
tan  puppy,  that  had  her  leg  run  over  by  a  hay-cart.  I  took 
it  and  nursed  it  up.  I  named  her  Susan.  But  I  called  her 
Sue,  for  I  was  n't  sure  if  it  was  proper.  I  never  called  her 
so  when  folks  were  round.  I  set  a  sight  by  that  puppy  ; 
took  her  up  to  sleep  foot  of  my  bed  nights.  She  was  civil 
enough  to  the  other  boys,  but  she  set  the  world  by  me ; 
followed  me  round  my  work ;  would  n't  eat  out  of  nobody 
else's  hands,  that  puppy  would  n't,  if  she  were  half  starved. 
She  went  hungry,  too,  sometimes. 

She  was  a  large  dog  for  a  black-and-tan  ;  and  father  said 
she  eat  too  much  and  he  could  n't  afford  to  keep  her.  So 
he  had  her  killed. 

Then  there  was  a  little  chap  I  knew  at  school  I  took  a 
fancy  to.  His  name  was  Reuben  Ross.  He  was  old  Dr. 
Ross's  boy.  He  was  a  lively  little  chap,  with  black  eyes 


SEALED    ORDERS.  7 

and  a  busy  way.  I  liked  him.  But  his  father  could  afford 
to  have  him ;  so  he  went  to  school,  and  through  the  High, 
and  after  that  to  another  schot)!.  So  he  kind  of  grew  away, 
and  got  ashamed  of  me,  I  guess.  I  never  liked  another  little 
chap  so  well. 

Did  ye  ever  chance  to  see  a  ship's  crew  weighing  anchor 
under  sealed  orders?  No?  Well,  I  never  did  but  once. 
It 's  a  curious  sight  and  it  gives  a  man  a  curious  feeling. 
He  is  n't  likely  to  feel  so  helpless  and  so  ignorant  and  so 
hopeless  in  any  other  way  I  know  of,  nor  so  down-hearted 
either.  I  never  saw  the  sight  but  once.  The  feelings  it 
give  me  stuck  like  plaster  after  it.  I  don't  know  as  I've 
got  over  'em  yet.  I  saw  my  brother  Abi'thar  set  off  in 
that  way  once.  Didn't  know  where  he  was  going.  Didn't 
none  of  us  know.  It 's  a  long  story.  His  young  wife  stood 
by  on  the  wharf.  I  had  to  take  her  home  after  the  boat 
hove  out  of  sight.  My  brother  Abi'thar  married  a  beauti 
ful  wife. 

Did  I  mention  a  little  girl  that  our  folks  took  into  the 
house  after  Susan  died  ?  For  they  set  a  store  by  Susan. 
She  didn't  cost  a  great  deal.  And  she  had  such  pretty 
ways.  They  were  very  lonesome,  and  they  took  this  little 
girl. 

They  took  her  to  help  about  the  house  at  first.  She  was 
a  sort  of  cousin,  —  old  Cousin  Dorothy's  daughter's  daugh 
ter  ;  and  Cousin  Dorothy  could  n't  do  for  her,  for  she  was 
paralicious  and  the  child's  parents  both  were  dead.  So  our 
folks  took  her  as  a  sort  of  charity  and  to  help  save  about 
the  housework,  and  for  being  lonesome,  as  I  said.  For  my 
other  sister,  she  'd  married  by  that  time,  and  set  up  house 
keeping  over  at  East  Abington.  Her  husband  was  a  tin 
smith,  and  mother  had  n't  anybody  to  help  about  the  house ; 
for  they  put  me  to  farm-work  then  continual.  But  when 
they  'd  got  her  they  took  a  surprising  notion  to  that  little 
girl.  Her  name  was  Carle.  But  Cousin  Dorothy  called 
her  Charlotte  always. 


8  SEALED   OKDEES. 

I  've  got  a  picture,  somewheres,  of  that  little  girl.  She 
went  over  to  the  dagerrotype  saloon  with  Abi'thar  and  me, 
one  Saturday  afternoon,  and  had  her  likeness  taken.  Abi' 
thar  paid  for  the  likeness.  Father  paid  him  for  his  work 
vacations  round  the  place.  Abi'thar  always  had  a  little 
money.  Father  didn't  give  me  any  time,  not  a  half  day 

0  't.     I  was  twenty-one  before  I  had  my  time.     But  when 
Abi'thar  went  to  sea  he  left  the  likeness.     So  I  got  it.     I  'd 
show  it  to  you,  Tom  Brown,  if  your  language  wasn't  some 
times  rough. 

It 's  a  singular  thing  to  me,  the  way  a  man's  heart  will 
grow  around  a  little  girl.  Carle  was  very  good  to  me.  She 
was  a  merry  creetur',  always  laughin'  out  about  the  house. 
She  turned  her  head  one  side,  this  way,  saucy,  like  a  robin's. 

1  've  seen  that  little  creetur'  go  and  perch  upon  the  arm  of 
father's  chair,  no  more  afraid  than  I  be  of  you  this  very 
minute.     I  've  stood  in  the  back  door  peeping  in  and  seen 
her  time  again.     I  never  dared  to  touch  my  father's  chair. 
If  him  and  I  were  in  heaven  together  this  living  day,  and 
God   A'mighty  bade   me,  I  don't   think   I  'd  darst   touch 
my  father's    chair.     Couldn't   get   over   the   feeling,    you 
know.     When  he  lay  a-dying,  I  'd  rather  the  doctor  'd  touch 
him.     But  Carle  didn't  mind.     Carle  never  minded  any 
body. 

As  nigh  as  I  can  remember,  I  was  seventeen  years  old, 
when  one  night  I  came  upon  two  folks  sitting  together  be 
hind  the  currant  bushes,  as  I  was  driving  home  the  caows. 
I  came  on  them  sudden,  and  Carle  was  one.  Carle  was  six 
teen  then,  a  year  younger  than  me.  It  was  before  she  had 
begun  to  pale  down  and  her  cheeks  were  round.  My  brother 
Abi'thar  was  the  other.  Abi'thar  had  his  arm  round  her. 
He  was  dressed  up  in  his  college  close  and  his  wristbands 
were  clean.  They  were  picking  the  currants  together.  The 
color  of  the  currants  and  the  color  of  Carle's  cheeks  was 
much  of  a  piece.  They  did  n't  hear  me  nor  see  me.  I  was 


SEALED    ORDEIIS.  9 

in  my  working  close.  I  was  dirty  and  grimy  and  had  the 
caows  to  watch ;  so  I  turned  off  and  went  roun  behind  the 
chicken-house.  I  did  n't  speak  to  them  at  all.  But  when 
the  chores  were  done  I  washed  up  and  went  off  into  the 
cranberry  patch,  and  set  there  alone.  I  think  I  must  have 
set  there  half  the  night.  I  'm  a  slow-thinking  person,  may 
be :  just  as  I  am  slow  of  speech.  It  took  me  half  the  night 
to  think  out  the  thoughts  that  came  to  me  in  the  cranberry 
patch.  It  \vas  a  starlight  night. 

It  seems  to  me,  Tom  Brown,  that  there  's  something  dread 
ful  in  it  when  a  man  finds  out  that  he  'd  like  to  take  a  par 
ticular  woman  to  be  his  wife.  I  've  often  wondered  if  it 's 
the  same  thing  to  a  woman  when  she  likes  a  man,  —  only 
that  it 's  a  disrespectful  sort  of  thing,  to  my  mind,  to  specu 
late  on  the  ways  of  women  folks.  To  be  sure,  I  was  only 
seventeen  years  old ;  but  I  never  was  like  other  boys.  Ev 
erything  come  so  dear  and  high  in  my  time.  I  remember 
thinking  in  the  cranberry  pasture  that  Carle  come  just  as 
dear  as  all  things  else  to  me.  And  yet  she  always  liked  me, 
in  her  saucy  way.  I  've  often  plagued  myself  with  wonder 
ing,  if  I  'd  worn  college  close  and  clean  wristbands,  like  Abi'- 
thar's,  how  it  would  have  been.  Girls  mind  such  things.  I 
was  an  awkward,  gawky  lad,  and  always  round  the  barn. 

Not  long  after  I  went  up  to  father  on  a  Sunday  night, 
and  asked  him  would  he  give  me  my  time  a  half  of  every 
year.  I  had  got  God  knows  what  notions!  in  my  head, 
Tom  Brown.  I  would  have  schooled,  and  earned,  and 
fought  for  her  like  a  man.  I  was  such  a  big  fellow,  and 
Abi'thar  was  a  measly,  spare-ribbed  chap. ,  If  I  could  have 
fought  him  on  hoeing  and  spading,  or  on  the  number  of 
swathes  cut  on  a  July  day,  or  on  breaking  an  ugly  colt,  or 
on  splitting  knotty  hickory,  or  any  downright  thing,  I  'd 
have  won  her  at  once  and  a  dozen  times  again.  But  this 
book-learning,  Tom !  It 's  what  you  can't  explain  nor  get 
hold  of.  Why,  it  sets  one  man  up  above  another  so,  and 


10  SEALED    ORDERS. 

gives  him  such  a  start,  —  as  wide  as  ever  Heaven  started 
off  from  Hell. 

So,  when  I  says,  again  :  "  Father,  I  'd  like  to  go  to  school. 
I  've  got  a  particular  reason  for  wanting  to  go  to  school 
again,"  and  he  says  :  "  And  I  've  got.  a  particular  reason 
for  wanting  you  at  home.  Have  you  locked  the  barn-doors 
up  to-night  ?  "  that  way,  short,  and  no  more  to  be  said  about 
it,  I  give  it  up  and  I  give  up  beat. 

It  was  four  years  till  I  was  twenty-one.  Tt  would  have 
been  a  long  time  for  a  little  girl  to  wait  for  a  fellow  that 
had  never  been  to  district  but  two  months  in  his  life. 

So  Carle  married  Abi'thar.  She  married  him  on  the 
twentieth  day  of  August,  the  year  she  was  eighteen.  It 
was  the  year  Abi'thar  come  from  college,  to  take  a  school  to 
teach  at  the  "West  Parish.  It  seemed  to  me  Abi'thar  never 
had  such  a  sickly,  spindling  look  as  he  did  when  they  stood 
up  to  be  married  in  our  front  parlor.  I  could  have  knocked 
him  down  with  the  tag  of  my  shoe-string.  And  they  paid 
six  hundred  dollars  a  year  to  that  make-up  of  a  man  for 
teachin'  school.  Father  give  me  fifty  cents  to  make  myself 
fine  for  the  wedding.  I  got  a  new  cravat  and  a  shirt-pin, 
and  had  five  cents  left.  I  gave  a  jerk  while  the  minister 
was  praying,  and  the  coppers  rattled  in  my  pocket.  I  looked 
at  Carle.  She  stood  up  very  shy,  clinging  to  Abi'thar's 
lean  arm.  I  thought  of  a  little  robin  in  a  cage.  I  thought 
of  a  little  flower  planted  in  a  strange  country.  I  thought 
of  a  little  star  I  'd  seen  shooting  away  over  my  head  the 
night  I  set  in  the  cranberry  patch.  I  thought  of  a  medley 
of  strange  things.  Them  pennies  rattled  and  rolled  in  my 
pocket  like  mad.  But  I  kept  my  eye  on  her.  I  says  to 
myself  :  "  You  're  like  everything  else.  You  cost  too  much 
for  me." 

And  so  I  got  through  that.  It  always  seems  to  me  the 
most  peculiar  place  to  pray  at,  —  weddings. 

I  said  much  the  same  to  her  afterward.     The  other  boys 


SEALED   ORDERS.  11 

kissed  her,  being  brothers.  Hey  ?  No,  sir.  I  did  not  kiss 
her.  She  was  my  brother's  wife ;  not  mine.  I  never  kissed 
her  in  all  my  life. 

But  I  says  to  her  what  I  says  to  myself,  low,  under 
breath :  "  You  cost  too  much  for  me,  Carle.  Everything 
always  has."  And  I  blessed  her,  and  never  looked  to  see 
if  she  understood  the  meaning  of  my  words.  But  I  blessed 
her,  Tom.  I  've  always  blessed  her.  And  I  '11  bless  her 
till  I  die ;  and  if  so  be  that  I  get  to  a  place  where  blessings 
thrive,  I  '11  bless  her  till  she'd  die  for  joy  if  another  bless 
ing  touched  her  life. 

I  '11  not  talk  any  more  to-night.  Tom  Brown.  I  'm  very 
much  troubled  with  this  cough,  and  my  breath  comes  a  mite 
hard.  What  ?  Aye,  yes,  if  you  like.  The  rest  another 
time.  You  've  sat  very  gentle,  like  a  woman,  while  I  've 
talked. 

I  don't  know  what  there  is  about  being  sickly  that  sets  a 
man  to  chattering  and  complaining  like  a  whip-poor-will. 
Perhaps  that's  the  way  that  women  come  to  be  such 
talkers.  She  never  talked  overmuch,  if  I  remember.  But 
she  was  n't  sickly  then. 

I  'd  got  so  far  as  the  wedding,  last  night,  —  Carle's  wed 
ding.  Her  first  wedding,  you  understand.  She  and  Abi'- 
thar  settled  down  at  home.  They  did  n't  go  away,  —  only 
a  trip  one  Monday  to  the  county  fair. 

I  'd  have  given  my  soul  those  days  if  I  could  have  got  off 
the  place.  But  I  was  n't  twenty -one,  and  father  never  let 
me  go  anywhere  without  permission.  So  I  staid  along. 
But  I  wandered  out  of  evenings,  and  took  to  low  company, 
and  a  groggery  there  was  back  in  the  pasture-road  behind 
our  house.  So  father  found  me  drunk  one  night  on  the 
hickory  wroodpile.  He  'd  never  had  a  boy  drunk  before. 
There  was  Abi'thar,  and  Jim,  and  Hazrow.  Jim  was  a 
church -member  and  a  justice  of  the  peace,  —  studied  law. 


12  SEALED    ORDERS. 

Hazrow  was  a  parson.  No,  Ilazrow  died.  That  was  it. 
I  most  forget.  He  would  have  been  a  parson,  if  he  hadn't 
died.  It  was  Jim  that  wrote  the  book.  So,  when  father 
found  me  on  the  woodpile  he  sent  me  off  to  the  button  fac 
tory.  But  he  took  my  wages  till  I  was  twenty-one. 

It  was  when  I  was  at  the  button  factory  that  they  sent 
for  me  to  come  to  see  Abi'thar  off.  He  was  broken  down 
with  teaching,  and  measlier  than  ever.  The  doctor  —  the 
old  doctor,  not  the  young  one  —  sent  him  on  a  voy-age. 
That  was  the  voy-age  I  spoke  to  you  about.  It  was  a  gov 
ernment  vessel,  bound  on  government  business.  Abi'thar, 
he  'd  studied  navigation  out  of  books  ;  but  it 's  my  opinion 
he  knew  no  more  about  it  than  you  may  say  you  know  of 
heaven  out  of  Revelations.  But  they  got  him  in,  between 
'em,  somehow,  second  mate.  He  took  a  little  trip  to  New 
Orleans  once,  before  he  went  to  college.  But  they  weighed 
under  sealed  orders,  as  I  told  you.  The  cap'n  knew  where 
they  was  bound ;  not  another  soul  on  board.  They  knew 
they  were  booked  for  a  year,  and  nothing  else  besides. 
But  the  old  doctor  thought  he  'd  better  go.  So  we  went 
down  to  New  York  city  to  see  'em  off,  —  Carle  and  Abi'thar 
and  I.  It  cost  a  great  deal  to  send  me,  but  Abi'thar  paid 
my  expenses.  He  wanted  me  to  look  after  Carle  and  the 
baby.  And  father  was  sciatiky,  and  could  n't  go.  I  didn't 
know  Carle  had  a  baby  till  I  got  home. 

It  was  a  pleasant  day  that  Abi'thar  sailed,  —  one  of  these 
blue  and  yellow  days,  you  know,  when  a  sense  of  the  sun 
and  the  sky  fills  your  mind  beyond  other  things.  But  the 
men's  faces  wore  a  still  look  mostly,  and  uneasy,  as  they 
boarded.  'Bi'thar's  looked  that  way,  —  very  pale  about  the 
mouth  at  times.  We  all  had  this  odd  feeling,  like  a  funeral. 
It  seemed  a  singular  thing  to  set  out  into  such  a  mighty 
spot  as  this  round  world  and  never  to  suspicion  on  what 
corner  or  what  angle  o  't  you  might  be  ordered  to  set  your 
foot,  nor  into  what  waves  and  waters,  nor  acrosst  what  rooks. 


SEALED   ORDEES. 

and  reefs,  and  storms,  and  God  Almighty's  perils  that  He  's 
prepared  for  them  that  sail  the  sea  in  ships.  I  don't  think 
we  'd  none  of  us  understood  how  it  would  seem  till  we  got 
upon  them  wharfs.  Dirty  wharfs.  A  dirty  place,  New 
York  city.  I  could  n't  find  a  spot  for  Carle  to  set  her 
clean,  soft  foot  upon. 

The  crew's  folks  come  down  to  see  'em  off.  There  was 
one  old  widder  lady  there,  crying  and  taking  on.  She 
begged  the  cap'n  to  tell  her  where  her  boy  was  going ;  she 
would  n't  tell  nobody,  she  said.  The  cap'n  had  to  have  her 
put  off  the  boat  (for  she  'd  got  on),  she  bothered  so.  There 
was  a  young  woman  there  with  her  young  man,  and  wives 
and  young  ones  abundant.  I  can't  forget  it  to  this  day 
how  they  took  on. 

Abi'thar  did  a  curious  thing  that  day.  He  come  back 
after  he  'd  boarded,  and  come  up  to  me  and  grabbed  my 
hand.  Says  he:  "  Good-by,  Finis,  —  good-by."  I  says, 
"  Good-by,"  and  wondered  what  he  meant,  for  he  'd  taken 
leave  of  me  before.  But  he  only  says,  "  Good-by,  Finis," 
and  looked  and  hesitated  on  himself  and  made  as  if  he 
would  say  more,  and  said,  says  he :  "  If  I  never  should 
come  back  "  — 

But  then  the  cap'n  called  an  order  out,  and  he  left  it 
so.  "  If  I  never  should  come  back,"  says  he,  and  says  no 
more.  I  've  often  wondered  what  he  meant  to  say. 

I  stood  by  Carle  upon  the  dirty  wharf  till  Abi'thar  'd 
sailed  away  quite  out  of  sight.  The  baby,  he  cried  the 
whole  time,  at  the  top  of  his  lungs.  I  held  him,  for  the 
mother  did  n't  take  notice  of  him.  I  was  afraid  she  'd  let 
him  drop.  She  sat  upon  a  lemon  box  I  'd  overturned  for 
her,  and  watched  the  ship.  Abi'thar  hung  one  of  his  best 
white  silk  handkerchiefs  out  to  her  as  was  agreed.  I  looked 
at  the  handkerchief.  I  thought  I  would  n't  look  at  Carle. 
But  she  put  her  little  hand  upon  my  arm  and  leaned  to  look. 
It  seemed  to  me,  standing  there  alone  with  her,  us  three  — 


14  SEALED    ORDERS. 

Carle's  baby  in  my  arms,  and  Carle  leaning  gentle  that  way 
up  against  me,  and  the  ship  sailing  like  the  Devil  out  to  sea 
—  that  a  cry  came  out  of  my  heart  louder  than  any  cry 
folks  cried  that  day  about  me. 

It  belongs  to  those  things,  Tom,  that  a  man  can't  well 
explain,  even  when  he  's  sickly  ;  but  it  was  like  this  :  "  That 
boat's  crew  think  they  're  doing  a  great  and  cruel  thing.  I 
know  a  greater  and  a  crueler.  It 's  when  a  soul  sails  from 
that  great  port  where  the  A'mighty  anchors  unborn  babes, 
and  weighs  under  sealed  orders  from  his  very  hand  into  this 
here  great,  mysterious  world.  It 's  when  all  things  that  hap 
pen  to  you  from  your  borning  to  your  dying  are  as  dark  as 
them  orders  and  as  unbeknown.  It 's  when  the  cargo  that 
you  carry  and  the  purpose  that  you  serve  are  like  the  very 
name  you  're  known  by  to  you,  —  foreign  tongues.  It 's  to 
be  disapp'inted  without  comfort,  and  to  suffer  without  rea 
son,  and  to  labor  for  no  end,  and  to  live  to  no  purpose,  and 
to  die  as  you  have  lived,  and  none  to  mourn  you." 

That  would  be  some  comfort  now.  I  remember  thinking 
so  when  Abi'thar's  wife  and  baby  stood  crying  after  him 
beside  me  on  the  wharf.  It 's  a  singular  state  of  things  in 
the  mysterious  higher  politics  that  govern  human  life  when 
a  man  so  covets  the  fall  of  one  little  tear  out  of  one  woman's 
eye  that  he  'd  sell  his  soul  and  body  if  it  would  fall  for  him. 
But  I  said  nothing  to  Carle,  and  I  took  her  and  the  baby 
home  to  live  till  Abi'thar  came  back.  It  was  a  pretty  baby, 
but  it  was  afraid  of  me. 

I  came  of  age  that  year.  He  took  my  last  quarter's 
wages,  and  sent  me  out  into  the  world.  Eh  ?  Yes,  with 
out  a  dollar,  —  unschooled,  untrained,  a  great,  helpless, 
gawky  fellow,  twenty-one  years  old.  But  I  did  n't  look 
for  any  better  luck.  It  was  what  I  'd  counted  on.  And  I 
enjoyed  it.  It  was  something  not  to  have  to  ask  him  for 
leave  to  go  up  to  meetin'  on  a  Wednesday  night.  So  I 
went  back  to  the  button  factory,  and  I  knuckled  down  to 
work. 


SEALED    ORDERS.  15 

Did  I  mention  that  Ross  had  settled  in  our  place  per 
manent,  —  Reuben  Ross  ?  He  followed  his  father's  busi 
ness,  and  went  in  with  the  old  doctor  in  the  office.  That 
was  the  little  chap  I  took  a  notion  to  at  the  District,  you 
remember.  I  never  got  over  the  notion,  maybe.  I  never 
wished  Reuben  any  ill,  not  on  any  occasion  since.  He  's 
much  as  he  was  when  he  was  a  little  chap ;  good-looking, 
Reuben  is,  and  his  clothes  set  well. 

I  don't  know  how  it  come  about ;  but  when  I  'd  pulled 
along  in  the  factory  awhile,  —  tough  work,  factory  work  ; 
measly  men,  like  Abi'thar,  give  out  on  it,  —  when  I M 
pudged  along  awhile,  I  invented  a  button,  and  made  money. 
You  wouldn't  think  it,  would  ye?  Folks  all  said  it  was 
queer  ;  did  n't  think  me  up  to  that  sort  of  thing.  I  did  n't 
myself  till  I'd  done  it.  It  was  a  covered  button,  with  a 
flat  eye.  I  molded  the  stuff  to  the  mold,  to  begin  with  ; 
wove  it  so.  Simple,  you  see,  but  a  new  process.  That  but 
ton  took  mightily.  I  got  it  patented,  and  I  got  into  the 
firm.  But  I  must  have  got  turned  round.  It  seems  to  me, 
it  was  after  the  report  come  about  Abi'thar  that  I  made  the 
button.  It  must  have  been,  come  to  think  o  't.  He  was 
only  booked  for  a  year,  and  it  was  n't  till  the  third  year 
into  the  factory  that  I  made  the  button,  and  I  '-d  only  been 
in  one  when  Abi'thar  sailed.  Besides,  mother  died  the 
year  I  made  the  button. 

I  used  to  go  home  in  those  days  occasional  on  a  Saturday 
night.  Carle  and  the  baby  were  living  along  with  the  old 
folks.  Carle  worked  about  the  house.  She  had  a  very 
handsome  baby. 

She  was  always  glad  to  see  me  home.  Sometimes  she 
said  so.  I  did  little  chores  about  for  her,  for  father  was 
so  sciatiky  and  let  things  run.  I  saw  that  the  fires  were 
laid,  and  wood  and  water  plenty,  and  that.  Sometimes  she 
put  her  little  hands  upon  my  arms,  leaning  gently,  as  she 
did  upon  the  wharf,  to  thank  me.  She  had  a  very  grateful, 


16  SEALED    ORDERS. 

gentle  manner,  —  more  gentle  than  when  she  was  a  little 
girl.  Whenever  she  did  so,  I  used  to  see  the  dirty  wharf, 
and  the  bine  and  yellow  morning,  and  the  ship  sailing  like 
the  Devil  out  to  sea,  —  sudden,  like  a  picture.  Then  some 
times  my  heart  sailed  like  a  devil  after  it,  into  a  strange  and 
foreign  land  of  things  and  thoughts.  She  seemed  so  help 
less  and  so  lonesome,  and  so  kind  to  me.  But  I  don't  think 
I  had  a  wicked  heart,  Tom  Brown.  She  was  my  brother's 
wife ;  not  mine.  Though  I  won't  say  that  I  understand  it, 
to  this  day.  It 's  my  opinion  it  would  n't  have  made  half 
the  difference  to  Providence,  nor  to  Abi'thar,  that  it  did  to 
me,  if  Providence  had  portioned  her  to  me.  But  it 's  al 
ways  been  like  that.  Betwixt  her  and  me  Heaven  holds 
his  great  Sealed  Orders  up  forever. 

She  was  leaning  on  my  arm  that  way  when  the  report 
come  in  about  Abi'thar.  Jim  brought  it  in.  He  hurried 
in,  and  said :  "  Abi'thar  's  dead.  He  died  of  cholera."  He 
had  n't  seen  her,  —  that  I  was  not  alone ;  and  he  looked 
shot  when  that  awful,  echoing,  deadly  sound  a  woman 
makes  when  she  's  shrieking  for  the  man  she  chose,  sounded 
through  the  sitting-room  and  out  into  the  house.  She 
shrieked  as  if  she  'd  shriek  her  soul  out  after  him  before 
she  dropped.  But  man  alive  !  she  dropped  into  my  arms. 

I'd  never  touched  her  by  any  chance  before,  only  her 
little  hand.  And  she  was  my  brother's  wife  no  longer.  I 
told  you  my  soul  sailed  sometimes  like  the  Devil  out  to  sea. 
That  moment,  man,  I  felt  as  if  I  'd  struck  a  sea  without 
a  shore,  and  as  if  in  all  my  nature  was  no  rudder,  nor  no 
compass,  nor  no  chart ;  no  nater'al  feeling  that  a  brother 
bears  a  brother,  no  power  of  mourning  for  my  flesh  and 
blood,  no  power  for  any  feeling  but  the  feeling  that  a  man 
bears  a  woman  when  he  's  chose  and  been  denied  her.  "  My 
brother  is  dead  !  "  says  I.  "  She  's  no  more  my  brother's 
wife !  " 

I  laid  her  softly  on  the  sofy.     Then  Jim  come  up. 


SEALED    ORDERS.  17 

"  It 's  too  bad,"  says  he,  "  too  mortal  bad  to  scare  her  so. 
And  there 's  no  proof,  either,  certain.  They  brought  home 
the  report,  believing.  They  were  booked  for  Shanghai. 
Abi'thar  seemed  very  weakly,  and  he  went  ashore,  the 
cap'n  writes,  to  rest  on  terry  Jirma"  (Jim  talked  in  foreign 
languages  a  great  deal  then)  ;  "  and  when  the  time  was  up  he 
failed  to  come*.  They  searched  and  inquired  as  they  could. 
But  the  pestilence  was  raging  like  hell-fire.  The  natives 
they  lay  dead  before  your  eyes  upon  the  sands.  They 
darsen't  stay.  They  weighed  and  sailed  without  him." 

Perhaps  you  can  put  it  to  yourself,  mess-mate,  the  posi 
tion  I  was  in.  Not  a  pleasant  nor  a  safe  one,  to  my  mind. 

Times  I  had  a  ridic'lous  angry  feeling  with  my  brother 
for  the  uncertain  manner  that  he'd  disappeared.  Like 
this :  Abi'thar  's  such  a  weakly  chap  he  can't  even  die  out 
right,  like  other  folks ! 

Times  I  had  a  deep  and  dangerous  feeling :  that  I  owed 
no  longer  any  dues  to  him  or  her,  and  that  I  'd  got  rights 
of  iny  own  to  get  her  if  I  could,  before  and  above  all  others 
on  God's  earth ;  and  that  my  chance  had  come,  and  the 
more  fool  I  not  to  take  it,  like  a  man. 

Other  times  I  went  about  for  weeks  together,  saying  over 
to  myself :  "  It  was  not  proved.  Nothing  has  been  proved. 
They  only  sailed  without  him,"  —  as  you  'd  say  your  cate 
chism  at  Sunday-school.  Hey?  Never  been  to  Sunday- 
school  ?  Everybody  goes  to  Sunday-school  in  Connecticut. 

No,  we  heard  nothing  definite  from  Abi'thar,  —  not  then. 
It  would  have  been  too  good  luck  for  me  if  I  'd  heard  de 
cided  then. 

I  hate  to  see  a  woman  in  a  widder's  cap.  Carle  took  hers 
off  in  a  few  months'  time,  to  please  me.  She  did  many  little 
things  to  please  me.  She  grew  kind  and  gentle  in  her 
trouble,  far  beyond  her  wont ;  leaned  on  me  for  help  and 
company  in  many  ways ;  begged  me  to  come  often  home  ; 


18  SEALED   ORDERS. 

said  she  missed  me ;  said  the  baby  'd  learned  to  watch  for 
me  of  a  Saturday  night. 

Times  I  think  I  might  have  learned  her  to  love  me  then. 
It  come  over  me  once  or  twice  that  first  year,  like  to  take 
my  breath  away.  . 

Why  did  n't  I  marry  her  ?  Well,  I  can't  answer  you, 
Tom  Brown.  I  never  set  up  to  be  a  pious  man ;  but  I 
don't  think  I  've  got  a  wicked  heart.  I  could  n't  someways 
—  could  n't  speak.  I  waited  patient  as  I  could.  I  went 
home  of  a  Saturday,  to  draw  a  sight  of  her  sweet  eyes  into 
my  soul  and  her  little  way  of  smiling  up.  I  lived  on  that 
till  come  another  week.  I  says  :  "  It  was  never  proved. 
I  '11  wait  awhile ;  I  '11  wait  a  little  longer  ;  we  shall  hear." 
But  why  did  n't  I  take  her  while  I  could  ?  Why  did  n't 
angel  nor  devil  whisper  me  a  hint  ?  Why  did  n't  the  voice 
of  my  brother's  blood  cry  unto  me  from  the  ground  to  bid 
me  try  my  honest  chance  ?  Why  ?  Angel  or  devil  may 
answer  you  them  inquiries  ;  it 's  what  I  can't  do.  Sealed, 
Tom  ;  sealed. 

This  was  the  way  things  went.  She  was  left  quite  desti 
tute,  you  might  say ;  for  Abi'thar  run  in  debt  to  take  the 
voy-age,  and  nothing  of  his  own  to  leave  her.  So  I  made 
her  comfortable,  and  the  little  fellow,  as  I  knew  how.  I 
was  making  money  fast  in  those  days.  Not  that  I  gave  it 
coarse,  outright  to  her.  I  put  it  into  father's  hands,  after 
mother  died,  and  he  paid  it  over  to  her  unbeknown.  I 
guess  she  thought  it  was  her  husband's.  Abi'thar,  he  had 
insured  his  life  for  a  thousand  dollars  ;  but  of  course  they 
disputed  the  policy  till  proof  came  in.  But  I  guess  she 
thought  it  was  the  life  insurance.  Father  told  her  it  be 
longed  to  her,  and  she  took  it  quiet,  askin'  no  questions. 
She  didn't  know  about  money  matters  ;  women  don't,  you 
know. 

So  I  come  and  went  and  waited  patient,  and  was  a  hap 
pier  man,  Tom  Brown,  those  days  than  I  'm  like  to  be 


SEALED  ORDERS.  19 

again.  It  gave  me  a  patient,  happy  feeling  that  I  'd  got  to 
wait.  First  time  in  my  life  that  I  did  n't  fret  and  ask  so 
many  saucy  questions  of  the  A'mighty.  I  felt  a  desire  in 
me  to  sweep  my  soul  out  clear  of  unbecoming  thoughts, 
against  the  day  when  I  might  ask  her  honest  for  her  honest 
love.  It 's  such  a  clean  and  wholesome  thing,  Tom,  when 
a  man  has  set  his  soul  on  a  particular  woman  to  be  his  wife. 

Sometimes  of  a  Saturday  night,  coming  home,  to  see  her 
standing  in  the  door,  I  thought  that  she  might  come  smiling 
up  and  say  :  "  There  's  news  at  last.  Abi'thar  is  a  living 
man,  and  I  'm  your  brother's  wife."  But  it  never  hap 
pened.  And  so  things  went  along,  and  one  day  father 
died.  The  sciatiky  struck  to  his  heart,  they  said. 

Maybe  the  old  gentleman  softened  in  his  mind  a  little 
toward  me.  Maybe  he  found  he  could  n't  afford  to  go  to 
t'  other  world  without  some  thought  to  wish  me  well.  I 
don't  know  as  to  that ;  but  he  willed  the  farm  to  me  —  to 
me  and  Carle.  Maybe  he  thought  things  would  take  a  turn 
that  way.  He  was  a  very  knowing  old  gentleman,  father, 
though  so  saving.  So  I  took  care  of  him,  and  made  him 
comfortable  till  he  died.  I  don't  want  you  to  think  I  lay 
up  no  grudge  against  father.  So  he  died;  and  Jim  and 
Mary  Ann,  —  she  that  married  the  tinsmith,  —  they  had 
the  rest  of  the  property,  what  there  was  o  't.  Mary  Ann 
came  over  and  stayed  awhile  with  Carle,  after  the  old 
gentleman  died.  Carle  was  ailing  in  those  days,  and  the 
baby  too.  I  sent  for  the  doctor  for  her.  I  told  him  to 
send  his  bill  to  me.  The  old  doctor  was  growing  a  mite 
dull  at  his  trade,  folks  said.  I  meant  her  to  have  the  best 
she  could.  I  'd  no  objection  to  doing  Reuben  a  good  turn, 
neither.  So  I  called  the  young  one  to  the  baby,  to  give 
him  a  trial.  Carle  liked  him  ;  so  he  doctored  in  our  house 
considerable  that  winter. 

Eh  ?  Yes,  I  'd  begun  to  think  myself  in  those  days  that 
Abi'thar  must  be  dead  ;  for  we  heard  nothin',  not  a  word 


20  SEALED   ORDERS. 

nor  sign.  But  I  says  :  "  I  '11  wait  a  little  longer,  patient." 
So  I  never  spoke  to  her.  She  seemed  very  patient,  too. 
And  the  young  doctor  did  her  a  sight  of  good.  Her  cheeks 
colored  up,  and  she  looked  ten  years  younger.  I  don't 
know  as  he  did  the  baby  so  much  good  as  he  did  her.  Some 
folks  liked  him,  some  did  n't.  It 's  a  slow  business,  doctor 
ing.  The  old  doctor  never  laid  up  nothing  of  any  account, 
and  only  her  and  one  child  either.  Reuben  had  to  help 
along  the  old  folks,  I  suspicion.  I  felt  very  grateful  to 
Reuben  for  doctoring  up  Carle,  and  when  I  paid  the  bill  I 
told  him  so.  He  colored  up  at  the  time ;  but  whether  it 
was  for  the  words,  or  whether  it  was  for  the  money,  I 
could  n't  say. 

You  're  right,  Tom.  I  believe  you  're  right.  But,  if  I 
was  a  blinded  fool,  I  was  an  honest  one.  I  meant  to  do 
the  fair  thing  both  by  her  and  by  them  that  might  come 
after  us,  and  by  Heaven  above  us  both.  I  was  away  from 
home  a  great  deal,  too,  you  see. 

But  I  come  home  one  Saturday  night,  and  I  think  I 
should  have  spoke.  At  least,  I  might  have  spoke  and  no 
sin  done,  though  we  waited  patient  for  the  rest  for  a  fur 
ther  time.  She  had  a  blue  ribbon  on  that  night  over  her 
black  dress,  —  blue,  or  purple  maybe  ;  I  don't  know ;  a  sort 
of  Chiny  color,  such  as  I  've  seen  on  cups  and  saucers.  I 
thought  to  myself  :  "  She  thinks  there  '11  be  no  more  news. 
In  her  clean  woman's  heart  she 's  my  brother's  wife  no 
more." 

I  was  right  there,  Tom,  quite.  She  was  n't  Abi'thar's 
wife.  And  she  was  n't  mine. 

It  was  the  young  doctor,  Reuben  Ross.  She  spoke  up 
that  very  night  and  told  me.  She  spoke  before  I  spoke, 
thank  God!  I  never  spoke  to  Carle.  She  never  knew. 
It  was  much  as  the  money  came  —  to  use  an  unworthy 
figger  —  that  my  love  came  into  her  lot  in  life.  If  there  's 
a  Father  of  us  all,  He  took  it,  as  the  old  gentleman  took  the 


SEALED   ORDERS.  21 

other,  and  gave  it  to  her  unbeknown.  If  it  blessed  her  in 
any  fashion,  she  took  it  quiet,  askin'  no  questions,  as  if  it 
had  been  her  rightful  own.  It  would  have  worried  her  ii 
she  had  known. 

She  told  me  all  there  was  to  tell,  —  as  how  she  thought 
Abi'thar  was  surely  dead ;  and  Reuben  thought  so  too,  she 
said :  and  Reuben  was  so  kind,  and  she  was  very  fond  of 
him.  But  if  they  could  ever  think  of  one  another  Heaven 
knows,  she  said,  for  he  had  others  to  look  after  and  he  was 
very  poor.  She  cried  at  that.  We  sat  alone  in  the  sitting- 
room.  She  put  her  face  down  on  my  knee,  the  way  a  child 
does,  and  put  up  her  little  hands,  and  cried  as  if  her  heart 
would  break. 

Says  I :  "  Carle,  do  you  love  Reuben  very  much  ?  " 

"  Very  much,"  she  says. 

Says  I :  "  More  than  my  brother,  Abi'thar,  Carle  ?  " 

She  hid  her  face  away  from  me.  She  was  fond  of 
Abi'thar,  she  said,  and  sobbed  out  hard  ;  but  she  was  very, 
very  fond  of  Dr.  Ross.  In  all  her  life,  she  said,  she  had 
never  loved  anybody  quite  as  dearly  as  she  always  should 
love  Dr.  Ross.  Did  I  care  ?  she  says.  Was  I  angry  ?  Did 
I  mind  ?  She  thought  I  was  fond  of  Reuben,  too. 

That 's  about  the  end,  Tom.  What 's  left  to  tell  is  of 
small  account  and  not  interesting  to  a  third  party.  If 
you  '11  let  a  whiff  of  air  in  (when  I  'm  rested  a  spell),  I  '11 
finish  up. 

What 's  that  you  said  ?  A  great  deed  to  do  ?  I  don't 
know.  It  never  struck  me  so.  Uncommon  ?  Well,  maybe. 
I  never  thought  of  it  in  that  way.  It  was  the  only  thing 
left  for  me  to  do.  I  had  no  choice,  as  I  view  it,  messmate. 

It  all  lays  just  here.  She  was  n't  meant  for  me.  That 
was  plain  enough  by  that  time.  And  you  see  her  heart  was 
set  on  the  young  doctor ;  and  where  the  heart  is,  Scripter 
runs,  is  the  treasure.  If  I  could  hold  her  happiness  out  in 


22  SEALED   ORDERS. 

my  two  hands  and  say,  Take  it !  what  choice  had  I,  man  ? 
Carle's  treasure !  I  overheard  her  calling  of  him  that,  one 
evening  in  the  sitting-room.  It  ought  to  be  a  costly  thing 
—  a  woman's  treasure.  A  thing  that  I  could  n't  afford,  you 
see  —  not  with  all  my  money.  So  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
give  her  the  money,  and  that 's  how  I  come  to  do  it.  No, 
I  've  never  repented  nor  regretted  it.  It 's  a  great  comfort 
to  me,  since  my  cough  come  on,  that  I  had  it  in  my  power 
to  make  her  happy.  I  think  she  must  be  happy.  I  meant 
she  should. 

I  don't  see  why  you  should  take  on  so  about  it.  1 1 
seems  to  me  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world.  I  could  n't 
stay  nigh  her  any  longer.  I  'd  been  too  near  heaven  to 
stay  in  hell  of  my  own  free  will  and  choice.  I  was  some 
how  tired,  too,  those  days  ;  wanted  to  be  by  myself.  I  've 
been  tired  mostly  ever  since.  I  did  n't  want  the  money. 
What  use  had  I  for  the  money  ?  So  I  made  the  will.  I 
willed  it  to  Carle,  and  to  Abi'thar's  baby  after  her.  Then 
I  tore  up  that  will,  and  made  another.  I  would  n't  restrict 
nor  bind  her.  There  might  be  other  children,  and  a 
mother's  heart  don't  see  the  difference,  maybe  ;  a  child  's  a 
child.  And  if  she  leaves  it  to  Reuben,  I  don't  know  as  I 
care.  She  should  n't  be  limited  and  fixed.  As  there  's  no 
limit  nor  end  to  the  love  I  bear  her,  so  there  shall  be  none 
in  the  money  I  leave  her.  That 's  my  feeling.  So  I  left 
the  money.  It 's  her  unincumbered  own. 

There  was  only  one  way  to  do  it.  Of  course,  you  've  hit 
it.  I  planned  a  great  deal  how  I  'd  do  it.  I  managed  very 
quiet,  and  closed  up  at  the  factory,  without  making  much 
ado,  and  took  out  a  little  from  the  bank  for  my  expenses 
and  to  start  the  world  anew,  and  put  the  will  in  the  sitting- 
room,  in  one  of  the  Chiny  vases  on  the  mantel-shelf,  where 
Carle  dusted  every  morning  and  would  be  sure  to  find  it ; 
and  so  I  got  myself  ready  and  says  good-by  to  no  one. 

No,  I  never  said  good-by  to   her.     I  darsen't  trust  my- 


•  SEALED    OJIDEBS.  23 

self.  When  I  'd  got  all  ready,  I  went  down  into  the  sitting- 
room  and  stood  awhile  by  the  fire  (it  was  a  January  night) 
and  watched  her  in  and  out.  She  was  putting  the  supper 
things  away.  She  had  on  that  little  Chiny-colored  ribbon 
that  I  spoke  of.  The  baby  toddled  after,  tugging  at  her 
close. 

I  wanted  to  have  set  a  little  while  along  with  her,  alone- 
I  'd  rather  hoped  nobody  would  come  in.  I  should  n't  have 
said  anything  to  startle  or  to  grieve  her ;  but  I  'd  like  to  have 
had  a  quiet  spell  alone  with  her,  and  heard  her  talk  of  little 
things  arid  seen  her  kiss  the  baby.  But  when  she  got  the 
dishes  done,  Reuben  came  in  himself. 

So  by  and  by  I  put  the  baby  down  from  off  my  lap,  where 
I  had  taken  him.  I  'd  learned  him  not  to  be  very  much 
afraid  of  me,  although  a  little  shy,  and  looking  sidewise  out 
of  his  eyes,  this  way.  He  had  his  mother's  eyes.  So  I  put 
the  baby  down,  and  I  kissed  him.  He  cried  when  I  kissed 
him.  Says  I  to  the  baby  :  "  Tell  your  mother,  God's  bless 
ing  fall  on  her  and  hers  forevermore !  Tell  her,  Bub," 
says  I.  For  he  could  talk  in  a  fashion  of  his  own ;  his 
mother  understood  him.  Bub  listened  sharp  a  minute  ;  then 
he  burst  out  crying,  and  his  mother  had  to  hush  him  up. 
I  Ve  wondered  sometimes  if  the  little  fellow  told  her  any 
jumbled  thing  when  morning  came. 

When  morning  come,  you  see,  I  was  n't  there.  I  made 
off  while  the  baby  cried.  Twice  I  got  to  the  road  and  come 
back.  Twice  I  stood  and  looked  in  at  the  sitting-room  win 
dow  from  the  outside,  in  the  bitter  cold.  It  was  biting 
cold.  The  snow  blew  up  and  froze  against  the  pane.  I 
could  see  her  dimly,  as  if  it  had  been  a  haze  before  my  eyes. 
She  set  by  the  fire,  on  a  little  cricket  at  his  feet.  The  baby 
had  rolled  off  in  the  old  patched  sofy,  fast  asleep.  Reuben 
set  there,  and  he  had  a  grave  look.  Now  and  then  she 
cried,  and  now  and  then  she  smiled  up,  as  I  had  seen  her 
smiling  up  at  me.  *  I  could  see  how  anxious  and  perplexed 


24  SEALED   ORDERS. 

they  were  about  their  love  and  lot,  poor  tilings  !  I  could  n't 
bear  to  see  her  cry.  Reuben  couldn't  either.  Last  time  I 
looked  in,  he  put  his  arm  down  and  drew  her  up  and  kissed 
her,  and  he  touched  the  little  ribbon  that  she  wore,  and 
seemed  to  say  how  sweet  a  look  she  had  in  it,  and  seemed 
to  say  a  thousand  things  that  no  man  else  had  any  right  to 
hear. 

After  that  I  went  away.  I  went  down  to  the  river,  across 
the  fields.  There  was  a  stretch  where  the  current  had  n't 
froze,  being  swift  and  deadly.  So  I  threw  my  hat  in,  and 
the  coat  I  'd  worn  that  day,  and  a  handkerchief,  and  so  on, 
and  left  'em  there. 

It  did  come  to  me,  standing  looking  down  in  the  bit 
ter  winter  night,  to  throw  myself  in  after  'em.  But  I  'm  a 
plain,  slow  man,  and  desperate  deeds  don't  come  easy  to 
me.  And  the  water  looked  very  cold,  so  I  come  away. 

I  come  away,  and  I  come  out  here  by  degrees,  and  took 
to  mining,  and  after  di'monds,  as  you  know.  I  like  a 
downright  digging  work  like  that.  I  have  n't  made  much, 
on  account  of  the  cough :  but  I  've  managed  to  get  along. 
I  've  never  gone  hungry,  and  not  very  often  cold.  And  I 
like  to  think  she  's  happy.  I  do  very  well. 

I  saw  my  own  death,  from  drowning,  in  the  papers,  on 
the  way  out  here,  with  full  particulars.  So  I  knew  that  that 
was  safely  settled.  And  I  took  a  name,  a  good  name,  I 
thought,  Carl  —  Carl.  It  reminds  me  more  or  less  of  her. 
And  a  man  don't  need  but  one  out  in  these  parts ;  gets  nick 
names  enough  to  serve  any  dead  man's  purpose,  like  my 
self. 

There  's  only  one  thing  I  'd  like,  that  I  know  of  now. 
I  'd  like  to  hear  if  she  is  happy.  I  'd  like  to  hear  just  how 
happy  she  is.  I  know  when  she  was  married.  I  saw  that 
in  the  papers.  And  the  news  they  got  from  Abi  thar  ;  that 
came,  nigh  as  I  can  judge,  the  week  before.  The  body  was 
identified  by  some  papers  that  a  native  kept  and  swam  to 


SEALED   ORDERS.  25 

meet  an  American  cap'n  with  for  a  suitable  sum  of  money. 
The  creetur'  took  care  of  him  in  his  last  hours,  and  secreted 
the  letters,  against  a  chance  to  make  a  little  something.  So 
the  cap'n  took  'em  to  the  American  consul,  and  it  all  come 
out.  That's  it,  if  I  have  it  straight.  I  don't  feel  very 
clear  of  anything  to-night.  Seems  as  if  I  should  choke  to 
death,  odd  minutes. 

Tom  Brown,  come  here  !  I  must  be  dressed  and  take  a 
journey.  Come  here  !  I  've  had  a  letter.  The  mail-stage 
brought  it  three  weeks  ago.  Peterson  got  it  for  me  at  the 
Crossings.  How  long  since  it  was  written  ?  Let  me  see. 
It 's  six  weeks  old  to-day. 

I  don't  know  how  she  found  out.  I  did  n't  understand. 
But  she  wants  me,  Tom.  She 's  sent  for  me.  Why  don't 
you  hurry,  man,  and  help  me  dress  ?  Peterson  wrote  her  ? 
How  did  Peterson  know  ?  I  talked  to  the  lad  on  Christmas 
night?  But  the  lad  was  asleep,  and  his  father,  too.  I 
could  n't  have  said  much  to  the  lad.  Talked  in  my  sleep, 
eh  ?  I  don't  know  ;  not  apt  to.  Never  mind,  I  can't  stop 
to  talk.  Have  you  read  the  letter  ?  I  '11  read  it  to  you, 
again.  No,  I  won't  stop  for  that.  They  've  found  me  out, 
she  says.  They  need  me,  Tom.  Money  don't  make  up 
for  me,  Tom.  Sick  and  in  trouble,  and  the  money  costs  too 
much  in  losing  me.  Reuben  is  sick,  you  see ;  may  die. 
Frets  after  me.  She 's  fretting,  too.  She  's  in  trouble  — 
my  poor,  poor  Carle  !  I  can  help  her.  Get  me  up. 

Man  alive !  what  do  you  stand  staring  there  so  at  ?  I 
don't  see  what  you  're  sniffling  over,  like  a  woman.  Can't 
take  the  journey  ?  Can't  get  out  of  this  cursed  frozen 
hole  alive  ?  Can't  get  to  her  ?  Why,  she 's  sent  for  me  ! 
You  're  crazy,  Tom  !  Give  me  my  close.  We  '11  see. 

Tell  her,  Tom,  I  did  my  best.  Tell  her  I  tried  to  go. 
Be  sure  you  make  her  understand  that  I  tried  to  go  to  her. 


26  SEALED   ORDERS. 

And  how  the  bleeding  struck  me  when  I  got  my  close  half 
on.  I  would  n't  tell  her  that,  but  that  she  should  be  sure  to 
understand  I  tried  to  go. 

I  can't  see  why  it  should  have  been  like  this.  It 's  a  great 
while  since  I  've  seen  her  face.  And  she  sent  for  me  !  I 
should  have  rather  obeyed  her  orders  than  these  others,  just 
this  once.  Tell  her  —  I  hoped  she  had  been  happy ;  and 
that  I  loved  her  dearly,  Tom,  and  meant  she  should  be ;  and 
that  I  did  very  well  out  here  and  wanted  nothing.  I  don't 
know  (to  look  at  it)  as  I've  ever  really  wanted  anything 
but  her.  That 's  the  worst  to  understand,  maybe,  of  all,  — 
that  one  straight  thing,  —  why  one  human  creetur'  is  made 
to  love  another  human  creetur'  as  I  've  loved  her,  in  this 
singularly  conducted  world. 

So  I  've  got  my  Sealed  Orders  for  the  last  time,  Tom ; 
and  I  'm  setting  out  to  foreign  lands  as  helpless  and  as  igno 
rant  as  any  man  can  own  himself  to  be. 

There  are  some  words  I  knew  at  Sunday-school  in  Con 
necticut.  I  learned,  the  chapter,  but  I  most  forget :  — 

"  And  I  saw  a  book  written  within  and  on  the  back  side, 
sealed  with  seven  seals. 

"  Who  is  worthy  to  open  the  book  and  to  loose  the  seals 
thereof  ? 

"  And  no  man  in  heaven,  nor  in  earth,  neither  under  the 
earth,  was  able  to  open  the  book,  neither  to  look  thereon. 
And  I  beheld,  and  lo  !  .  .  .  .  a  Lamb,  as  it  had  been  slain. 
....  And  he  came  and  took  the  book." 

Why,  there's  Susan!  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Susan.  Go 
to  school?  I'd  like  to  go  to  school.  But  I  don't  know 
about  going  in  my  heavenly  Father's  house.  Can  He  afford 
it,  Susan,  do  you  think  ?  If  you  're  sure  He  can,  I  '11  try 
not  to  cost  him  more  than  His  other  boys,  if  I  can  help  it. 
Shall  I  begin  to-night  ? 


OLD   MOTHER   GOOSE. 


WHEN  Thamre  consented  to  sing  for  the  citizens  of  Hav 
ermash,  last  year,  nobody  was  more  surprised  than  the  citi 
zens  of  Havermash  themselves. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Havermash  to  have  attempted  it. 
Nothing  is  too  good  for  Havermashers.  Were  St.  Cecilia 
prima  donna  for  a  season,  it  would  appear  to  them  quite 
natural  to  seek  her  services.  Have  they  not  a  brown-stone 
post-office  and  a  senator,  a  street  railway  and  a  county  jail, 
a  local  newspaper,  an  author  (the  public  need  scarcely  be 
reminded  of  the  "  Havermash  Hand-Organ  :  a  Tale  of  Love 
and  Poverty  "),  and  a  shoe  and  leather  trade  ?  Transcend 
ing  all,  is  not  their  city  charter  two  years  old  ? 

When  the  Happy  Home  Handel  Association,  headed  by 
little  Joe  Havermash  (grandson  of  the  original  shoe  and 
leather  man,  whose  wooden  cobbler's  shop  occupied  the  site 
of  the  present  post-office  in  1793),  took  upon  itself  the 
performance  of  an  "  oratorio  "  last  Christmas  eve,  "  We 
will  have  Thamre,"  said  Joe,  serenely. 

Still,  when  Joe  came  home  from  Boston,  breathless  and  ra 
diant,  one  night  early  in  the  season,  with  Thamre's  tiny  con 
tract  (she  wrote  it  on  a  card,  he  said,  with  her  glove  on,  just 
in  going  out,  and  the  card  was  as  sweet  now  —  see  !  —  as  the 
glove,  and  the  glove  had  just  the  smell  of  one  English  vi 
olet,  no  more)  to  sing  in  the  stone  post-office  at  eight  o'clock 
on  Christmas  eve,  on  such  and  such  conditions  (simple 
enough),  and  for  such  and  such  remuneration,  —  that  was  the 


28  OLD   MOTHER    GOOSE. 

astonishing  part  of  it,  —  even  Havermash  was  off  its  guard 
enough  to  be  surprised. 

"  She  '11  come,"  said  Joe.  "  I  supposed  she  would.  I 
meant  she  should.  But  the  terms  are  astounding.  I  was 
prepared  to  offer  her  twice  that.  I  'd  pay  a  big  slice  of  it 
out  of  my  own  pocket  to  get  her  here.  There  's  no  trouble 
about  terms.  Did  you  see  what  Max  offered  her?  Do 
you  know  what  she  's  getting  a  night  in  New  York  ?  Do 
you  know  what  she  asked  us  ?  Five  hundred  dollars,  sir  ! 
Only  five  hundred  dollars.  Think  of  it,  sir  !  But  the  con 
ditions  are  the  most  curious  thing.  She  scorns  to  take  so 
little,  maybe.  I  don't  know.  All  I  know  is,  every  dollar 
of  it  is  to  go  to  old  women  who  have  n't  lived  as  they  'd 
ought  to  in  this  town.  'For  the  relief  of  the  aged  women 
of  Havermash,  who,  having  in  their  youth  led  questionable 
lives,  are  left  friendless,  needy,  and  perhaps  repentant  in 
their  declining  years.'  That 's  the  wording  of  the  agree 
ment.  I  signed  it  myself  in  her  little  red  morocco  note 
book.  Most  curious  thing  all  round  !  It 's  my  opinion, 
sir,  it  takes  a  woman  to  get  up  an  uncommon  piece  of  work 
like  that." 

Last  Christmas  eve  fell  in  Havermash  wild  and  windy. 
The  gusts  fought  furiously  with  each  other  at  corners,  and 
under  fences,  and  over  the  bleak  spaces  in  which  the  new 
little  city  abounded,  and  through  which  it  straggled  pain 
fully  away  into  the  open  country.  Where  the  snow  lay,  it 
lay  in  tints  of  dead,  sharp  blue,  cold  as  steel  beneath  the 
chilly  light ;  where  it  was  blown  away,  the  dust  flew  fine 
and  hard  like  powder.  Overhead,  too,  there  hung  only 
shades  of  steel.  One  long,  low  line  of  corrosive  red,  how 
ever,  had  eaten  its  way  through  against  the  western  hill- 
country,  and  looked  like  rust  or  blood  upon  a  mighty  coat 
of  mail. 

So,  at  least,  Miss  Thamre  fancied,  shivering  a  little  in 


OLD   MOTHER   GOOSE.  29 

her  folded  furs,  as  she  watched  from  the  car  window  the 
swooping  of  the  night  upon  the  bleak,  outlying  lands  and 
approaching  twinkle  of  the  town. 

It  was  a  cheerless  night  for  the  prima  donna  to  be  in 
Havermash.  Joe  had  been  saying  so  all  day.  She  thought 
so,  it  would  seem,  when  he  handed  her  from  the  cars.  She 
scarcely  spoke  to  him,  nodding  only,  looking  hither  and 
thither  about  her,  through  the  shriek  and  smoke,  with  that 
keen,  baffling  glance  of  hers,  which  all  the  world  so  well 
remembers.  Joe  felt  rather  proud  of  this.  He  knew  what 
the  eccentricities  of  genius  were ;  was  glad  of  a  chance  to 
show  himself  at  ease  with  them.  Had  she  bidden  him  stand 
on  his  head  while  she  found  her  trunk,  or  sit  on  a  barrel  in 
the  draught  and  wait  for  her  to  compose  an  aria,  he  would 
have  obeyed  her  sweetly,  thinking  all  the  while  how  it 
would  sound,  told  to  his  grandchildren  on  winter  nights. 

Half  Havermash  was  at  the  station.  All  Havermash  re 
members  that.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  Joe  could  get 
her  to  her  carriage  quietly,  as  befitted,  to  his  fancy,  the 
conduct  of  a  lady's  welcome. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  see  so  rfiany  people,"  said  Miss 
Thamre,  in  her  pretty,  accented,  appealing  way.  "  What 
are  they  here  for  ?  " 

"  I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Joe,  with  a  puzzled  air, 
"  unless  they  're  here  to  see  me." 

This  amused  the  lady,  and  she  laughed,  —  a  little  genial 
laugh,  which  bubbled  over  to  the  ears  of  the  people  pressing 
nearest  to  her  in  the  crowd. 

"  She  laughs  as  well  as  she  sings,"  said  a  member  of  the 
Happy  Home  Handel  Association. 

"  She  has  the  eye  of  a  gazelle  and  the  smile  of  a  Sphinx," 
said  the  Author,  and  took  out  his  note-book  to  "  do  "  her 
for  a  religious  weekly. 

"  She  travels  alone,"  said  a  mother  of  four  daughters. 
(She  had,  indeed,  come  to  Havermash  quite  alone,  with 
neither  chaperone  nor  maid.) 


30  OLD   MOTHER    GOOSE. 

"  She  can  wear  silver  seal  and  not  look  green,"  paid  a 
brunette,  in  black  and  garnet. 

"  She  sees  everything  within  a  mile  of  her,"  said  Joe  to 
himself,  as  he  held  the  hem  of  her  dress  back  reverently 
from  the  carriage-wheels. 

It  would  seem  that  she  saw  far  and  distinctly,  for  half 
within  her  carriage  door  she  paused  and  said  abruptly :  — 

"  What  is  that  ?     Let  me  see  what  that  is  !  " 

An  old  woman  was  pushing  her  way  through  the  reluc 
tant  crowd  ;  a  very  miserable  old  woman,  splashed  with 
mud.  She  had  a  blanket  shawl  over  her  head,  and  her 
unhealthy  yellow  gray  hair  blew  out  from  under  it,  over 
her  face  before  the  wind. 

A  crowd  of  villainous  urchins  followed,  pelting  her  with 
slush  and  snow,  and  volleys  of  that  shrill,  coarse  boys'  cry 
(one  of  the  most  pitiful  sounds  on  earth)  by  which  the  pres 
ence  of  a  sacred  mystery  or  a  sorrowful  sin  is  indicated,  not 
alone  in  Havermash. 

"Old  Mother  Goose!  Old  Mother  Goose!  Hi,  yi! 
there!  Mother  Goosey's  out  buyin'  Christmas  stockins 
for  her  dar-ter  !  Old  Mother  Goo-oo-ose  !  " 

Everybody  knew  how  old  Mother  Goose  hated  the  boys 
(and  with  good  reason,  poor  soul !)  ;  but  nobody  had  ever 
seen  her  offer  them  violence  before  that  night. 

In  a  minute  she  had  grown  suddenly  livid  and  awful  to 
see,  rearing  her  lank  figure  to  its  full  height  against  the 
steel  and  blood-colored  background  of  the  sky,  where  a 
sudden  gap  in  the  crowd  had  left  her  alone. 

"  You  stop  that !  "  she  fiercely  cried  ;  and  dealt  a  few 
bad  blows  to  right  and  left  before  she  was  interfered  with. 

Annoyed  beyond  measure,  Joe  entreated  Miss  Thamre  to 
let  him  take  her  from  the  scene.  She  hesitated,  lingered, 
turned  after  a  moment's  thought,  and  sank  upon  the  carriage 
seat. 

"  You  did  not  tell  me  who  it  was,"  she  said  imperiously ; 


OLD   MOTHER   GOOSE.  31 

"  I  asked  you.  I  like  to  be  answered  when  I  ask  a  ques 
tion.  I  never  saw  such  a  miserable  old  woman !  " 

"  One  of  your  prospective  beneficiaries,  madam,"  said 
Joe,  humbly.  "  A  wretched  old  creature.  The  boys  call 
her  Old  Mother  Goose.  Do  not  distress  yourself  about 
her.  It  is  no  sight  for  you." 

"  You  say  the  boys  call  her  —  I  never  heard  such  a  poor, 
sad  name  !  Has  she  no  other  name,  Mr.  Havermash  ?  Oh  ! 
there  she  is  again." 

A  sudden  turn  of  the  carriage  had  brought  them  sharply 
upon  the  miserable  sight  once  more.  Old  Mother  Goose 
was  sitting  stupidly  in  the  slush  beside  the  hack-stands. 
Her  shawl  was  off,  and  her  gray  hair  had  fallen  raggedly 
upon  her  shoulders ;  her  teeth  chattered  with  chill  and 
rage ;  there  were  drops  of  blood  about  her  on  the  snow  ;  a 
few  of  the  more  undaunted  spirits  among  the  boys  still  hov 
ered  near  her,  avenging  themselves  for  their  recent  defeat 
by  furtive  attempts  to  purloin  her  drabbled  shawl ;  and  a 
savage  expression  of  his  country's  intention  to  preserve  vir 
tuous  order,  in  the  garb  of  the  police,  stood  threatening 
poor  Old  Mother  Goose  with  the  terrors  of  the  law. 

It  was  a  sorry  sight.  A  sorry  sight  Miss  Thamre  seemed 
to  find  it.  She  leaned  forward  to  the  window.  Joe  could 
not  prevent  her  ;  she  would  see  it  all.  The  silver  shine  of 
her  fur  wrappings  glittered  through  the  dusk,  as  she  moved; 
one  tiny  gloved  and  fur-bound  hand  hung  over  the  window's 
edge ;  a  faint  sweetness,  like  the  soul  of  an  English  violet, 
stirred  as  she  stirred,  and  stole  out  upon  the  frosty  air. 

"  There ! "  cried  the  old  woman,  mouthing  a  hideous 
oath,  "  there  's  the  lady  !  I  '11  see  her  yet,  in  spite  of  ye  !  " 

Old  Mother  Goose  staggered  up  from  the  mud,  staring 
dully ;  but  the  silver-gray  picture  framed  in  the  carriage 
window  flashed  by  her  in  an  instant.  For  an  instant  only 
the  two  women  looked  each  other  in  the  eye. 

Miss  Thamre  turned  white  about  the  chin.     Her  hand 


32  OLD   MOTHER   GOOSE. 

rose  to  her  eyes  instinctively,  covered  them,  and  fell.  It 
must  have  been  such  a  miserable  contrasting  of  life's 
chances  to  her  young  and  happy  fancy ! 

"  I  've  seen  enough,"  she  said.     "  Never  mind  !  " 

"  Her  name,"  said  Joe,  thinking  to  divert  her  from  the 
immediate  disturbance  of  the  sight,  "  is  Peg,  I  believe,  — 
Peg  Mathers.  You  see  the  boys  got  it  Old  Mathers,  then 
Old  Mother,  so  Old  Mother  Goose,  I  suppose ;  and  quite 
ingenious,  too,  I  think,  poor  creature  !  " 

Miss  Thamre  made  no  reply.  Quite  weary  of  the  sub 
ject,  she  wrapped  herself  back  into  the  carriage  corner,  and, 
asking  only  how  long  a  ride  it  was,  drew  a  little  silver  veil 
she  wore  across  her  face  and  said  no  more.  Quite  weary 
still  she  seemed  when  Joe  gave  her  his  arm  at  the  hotel 
steps  (she  had  refused  to  accept  his  or  any  other  private 
hospitality  in  the  place)  ;  and  very  wearily  she  gave  him 
to  understand  that  she  preferred  to  be  alone  till  the  hour 
of  her  appearance  before  the  Havermash  public  should 
arrive. 

Joe  stumbled  upon  Old  Mother  Goose  again,  in  running 
briskly  down  the  hotel  steps. 

She  was  wandering  in  a  maudlin,  aimless  way  up  and 
down  the  sidewalk  at  the  building's  front.  Her  shawl  was 
gone,  and  her  gray  head  was  bare  to  the  wind,  which  was 
now  as  sharp  as  high. 

"  What !  you  again  ?  "  said  Joe.  "  What  are  you  doing 
here,  Peg  ?  I  was  ashamed  of  you  to-night,  Peg !  The 
people  had  come  out  to  see  a  famous  lady,  and  you  must 
get  to  fighting  with  the  boys  and  frighten  her.  You  dis 
graced  the  town.  Better  go  home,  or  you  '11  be  in  more 
mischief.  Come ! " 

"  I  'm  out  hunting  for  my  shawl,  Mr.  Havermash,"  said 
the  old  woman,  after  a  moment's  sly  hesitation.  "  I  've  lost 
my  shawl.  Them  boys  took  it,  curse  on  'em  !  I  'd  go  to 
see  the  famous  lady,  if  I  had  my  shawl." 


OLD   MOTHER   GOOSE.  83 

"  Better  go  home ;  better  go  home  !  "  repeated  Joe. 
"  She  does  n't  want  to  see  you,  Peg." 

"  Don't  she,  Mr.  Havermash  ?  " 

Old  Mother  Goose  laughed  (or  did  she  cry  ?  She  was 
always  doing  one  or  the  other.  What  did  it  matter  which?), 
nodding  upward  at  the  windows  of  the  prima  donna's  par 
lors,  where  against  the  drawn  shades  a  slight,  tall  shadow 
passed  and  repassed  now  and  them,  faintly,  like  a  figure  in 
a  dream. 

"  Don't  she  ?  Well,  I  don't  know  as  she  does.  How 
warm  she  looks  !  She  must  be  warm  in  them  fur  tippets 
that  she  wears  ;  don't  you  think  she  must  ?  I  like  to  see  a 
famous  lady  well  as  other  folks,  when  I  have  my  shawl. 
Mr.  Havermash  !  " 

"  Well,  well,  well !  "  Joe  stopped  impatiently  in  hurry 
ing  away. 

"Would  you  rather  I'd  go  home  and  say  my  prayers 
than  fight  the  boys  ?  I  hate  the  boys  !  " 

"  Prayers,  Peg  ?  Do  you  say  your  prayers  ?  What 
prayers  do  you  say,  Peg  ?  Come  !  " 

Mr.  Havermash  lingered,  entertained  in  his  own  despite 
—  thinking  he  would  tell  Miss  Thamre  this  ;  it  might  amuse 
her. 

U'I  say  my  prayers,"  said  Old  Mother  Goose,  beating  her 
white  hair  back  from  her  face  at  a  blow,  as  if  she  could 
give  it  pain.  "I've  said  'em  this  many  years.  I  say: 
'  When  the  Devil  forgets  the  world,  may  God  remind  him 
of  the  boys  ! '  I  don't  feel  so  about  girls,  Mr.  Havermash. 
Maybe,  if  I  had  n't  had  one  once  myself,  I  should.  Mj 
girl  ran  away  from  me.  She  ran  away  on  a  Christmas 
eve,  thirteen  years  ago.  Did  ye  ever  see  my  girl  ?  Mr. 
Havermash !  " 

But  Joe  was  gone.  He  looked  back  once  in  running  up 
the  street  (he  was  late  to  supper  now  ;  his  wife  waited  to 
know  if  Miss  Thamre  would  receive  a  call  from  her,  and 


34  OLD   MOTHER    GOOSE. 

would  scold  a  bit,  —  women  will,  it  can't  be  helped),  — he 
looked  back  across  his  shoulder,  and  saw  that  Old  Mother 
Goose  was  still  hunting  for  her  shawl  beneath  the  glitter 
ing,  curtained  windows,  where  a  shadow  passed  and  re- 
passed,  high  above  her  head,  like  the  shadow  of  a  figure  in 
a  dream. 

Thamre  took  no  supper.  It  was  six  o'clock  when  she 
entered  into  her  parlors  and  shut  her  doors  about  her.  It 
was  five  minutes  before  eight  when  Mr.  Havermash  called 
to  conduct  her  to  the  concert  hall  in  the  second  story  of  the 
brown-stone  post-office.  It  is  quite  evident,  I  think,  that, 
in  all  the  passage  of  the  somewhat  remarkable  drama  into 
which  her  appearance  in  Havermash  resolved  itself,  no  act 
can  have  equaled  in  intensity  that  comprised  within  those 
two  solitary  hours.  Yet  positively  all  that  is  known  of  it, 
even  at  this  distant  day,  is  that  Miss  Thamre  took  no  sup 
per.  Every  boarder  in  the  hotel  knew  that  in  half  an  hour. 
Loiterers  and  lion-hunters  beneath  the  windows  where  the 
nervous  shadow  passed  picked  it  up,  as  loiterers  and  lion- 
hunters  will.  Even  Old  Mother  Goose  knew  it  —  coming 
in  to  ask  the  hotel  clerk  if  he  had  seen  her  shawl,  and  being 
for  her  trouble  roughly  shown  the  door. 

Miss  Thamre,  curtained  and  locked  in  Havermash's  grand 
suite  of  rooms  (of  which  the  town  is  not  unjustly  proud,  it 
may  be  said ;  in  which  the  senator  is  always  accommodated 
on  election  days ;  in  which  a  Harvard  professor  and  a  Bos 
ton  alderman  have  been  known  to  spend  a  night ;  in  which 
the  President  himself  once  took  a  private  lunch,  in  travel 
ing  to  the  mountains),  spent,  we  say,  two  hours  alone. 
In  alt  her  life,  perhaps,  the  lady  never  spent  two  hours  less 
alone.  For  a  year  the  public  fancy  has  been  a  self-invited 
guest  at  the  threshold  of  those  hours.  It  is  with  reluc 
tance  that  one's  most  reverent  imagination  follows  the  gen 
eral  curiosity  across  their  sacred  edge ;  and  yet  it  is  with 


OLD   MOTHER    GOOSE.  35 

something  of  the  same  inner  propulsion  which  forces  a 
dreamer  on  the  seashore  to  keep  the  eyes  upon  the  strug 
gles  of  a  little  gala-boat  wrecked  by  a  mortal  leak  in  calm 
waters  on  a  sunny  day. 

One  sees,  in  spite  of  one's  self,  the  lady's  soft  small  hands 
close  violently  on  the  turning  key ;  the  silver  furs  shine  un 
der  the  chandeliers  as  they  fall,  tossed  hither  and  hither, 
to  the  floor ;  the  little  veil  torn  from  the  fine,  refined,  sweet 
face ;  the  setness  of  the  features  and  that  pallor  of  hers 
about  the  chin. 

One  knows  that  she  will  pace  just  so  across  the  long,  un- 
homelike  splendor  of  the  gaudy  rooms  ;  that  she  will  fold 
her  hands  behind  her,  one  into  the  other  knotted  fast ; 
that  she  will  lift  them  now  and  then,  and  rub  them  fiercely, 
as  if  she  found  them  in  a  deathly  chill ;  that  her  hair  will 
fall,  perhaps,  in  her  sharp,  regardless  motions,  and  hang 
about  her  face ;  that  her  head  is  bent ;  and  that  her  eyes 
will  follow  that  great  green  tulip  on  the  Brussels  car 
pet,  from  pattern  to  pattern,  patiently,  seeing  only  that,  as 
the  shadow  of  her  on  the  curtain  passes  and  repasses,  telling 
only  what  a  shadow  can. 

One  listens,  as  she  listens  to  the  voices  of  the  people 
passing  on  the  pavement  far  below ;  one  wonders,  as  she 
wonders  what  they  say  ;  if  they  speak  of  her,  if  they  would 
speak  of  her  to-morrow;  and  what  it  would  happen  they 
would  say,  should  to-morrow  bring  forth  what  to-morrow 
might. 

One  hears,  for  she  must  hear,  a  Christmas  carol  chanted 
flatly  by  some  young  people  in  the  street ;  the  bustle  of  a 
hundred  Christmas  seekers  coming  homeward,  with  laden 
arms  arid  empty  pockets,  from  the  little  shops  ;  one  notices 
that  she  draws  the  shade,  to  see  if  holly  is  hanging  in  the 
windows,  as  it  used  to  hang  in  Havermash,  all  up  and  down 
the  street,  by  five  o'clock,  —  and  if  she  remembers  how 
many  times  she  has  stolen  out  away  in  her  clean  hood, 


36  OLD   MOTHER    GOOSE. 

with  some  care  that  no  one  else  need  follow,  shaming  her, 
to  see  the  holly  herself  and  hear  the  carols  sung,  like  hap 
pier  little  girls  —  how  can  one  but  seem  to  remember  too  ? 
And  when  the  church-bells  ring  out  for  Christmas  prayers, 
melting  through  the  obdurate  mail  of  the  welded  clouds, 
till  they  seem  to  melt  a  star  through,  as  still  and  clear  as 
God's  voice  melting  through  a  wrung,  defiant  heart,  —  if  her 
set  face  quivers  a  little,  can  one  prevent  one's  own  from 
quivering  as  well  ? 

Perhaps  the  church-bells  ring  in  a  vision  with  them,  to 
the  barred  and  curtained  glitter  of  Miss  Thamre's  rooms. 
Perhaps,  by  sheer  contrast,  her  fancy  finds  the  wretched 
creature  whom  she  saw  to-day,  seated  with  the  mud  and 
blood  about  her,  shut  in  from  all  the  world  with  her,  they 
two  alone  together  in  the  dreadful,  shining  place. 

Perhaps  she  seems  to  herself  to  escape  it,  fleeing  with 
her  eyes  to  the  dimmest  corner  of  the  room.  Perhaps  she 
forces  herself  to  face  it,  turning  sharply  back,  and  lifting 
her  head  superbly,  as  Thamre  can  (the  shadow  on  the  cur 
tain  lifts  its  head  just  so,  as  a  passer  in  the  street  can  see). 
Perhaps  she  reasons  with  it,  hotly,  on  this  wise,  as  she 
walks :  — 

"  I  did  not  think,  in  coming  to  Havermash,  you  would 
strike  across  my  way  like  this !  " 

"  Heaven  knows  what  restless  fancy  forced  me  here, 
Would  to  Heaven  I  had  never  come  !  " 

"  For  thirteen  years  I  have  wondered  what  it  would  be 
like  to  look  upon  your  face  again.  How  could  I  know  it 
would  be  like  what  it  is,  —  so  miserable,  so  neglected,  so 
alone  !  " 

Perhaps  she  argues  sternly,  now  and  then  :  — 

"  I  have  never  left  you  to  suffer,  at  the  worst.  You  can 
not  starve.  The  first  ten-dollar  bill  I  ever  earned  I  sent  to 
you.  If  you  are  too  imbecile  to  watch  the  post,  am  I  to 
blame  ?  If  you  will  have  opium  or  rum  for  it,  am  I  to 


OLD   MOTHER   GOOSE.  37 

blame  ?  I  've  done  my  duty  by  your  shameful  motherhood, 
if  ever  wretched  daughter  did !  What  would  you  have, 
what  will  you  have  besides  ?  " 

Perhaps  she  droops  and  pleads  at  moments  like  a  little 
child :  - 

"  I  have  fought  so  hard,  mother,  for  my  name  and  fame ! 
You  gave  me  such  a  load  of  shame  and  ignorance  and 
squalor  to  shake  off!  It  has  been  such  a  long  and  bitter 
work !  Let  me  be  for  a  little  while  now,  mother,  do ! 
Sometime  before  you  die  I  '11  search  you  out ;  but  not  just 
yet  — just  yet  !  " 

Perhaps  she  falls  to  sobbing,  as  women  will.  Perhaps 
she  flings  her  beautiful  arms  out,  and  slides  with  her  face 
upon  the  stifling  scarlet  cushions  of  a  little  sofa,  where  she 
tossed  her  veil.  Perhaps,  in  kneeling  there,  the  bleeding, 
gray-haired  figure  stalks  her  by,  and  the  quieter  compan 
ionship  of  a  troop  of  passive  and  exhausted  thoughts  will 
occupy  her  place. 

It  may  be  that  she  will  think  about  a  certain  Christ 
mas  eve,  windy  and  wild  like  this,  and  with  a  sky  of  steel 
and  red  almost  like  this.  She  thought  of  it  in  seeing  the 
sunset  from  the  window  of  the  cars,  remembering  how  a 
streak  of  red  light  crept  into  the  attic  corner,  to  help  her 
while  she  packed  a  little  bundle  of  her  ragged  clothes,  thir 
teen  years  ago  to-night. 

It  may  be  that  she  remembers  counting  the  holly  wreaths 
to  keep  her  wits  together  as  she  fled,  guiltily  and  sobbing  for 
terror  at  the  thing  that  she  was  doing,  through  the  happy 
little  town ;  that  she  saw  crosses  of  myrtle  and  tuberoses  in 
Mr.  Havermash's  drawing-room  windows  as  she  went  by, 
and  how  grand  they  looked ;  and  that  a  butcher's  wife  she 
knew  was  hanging  blue  tissue-paper  roses  in  her  sitting- 
room  as  she  climbed  the  depot  steps.  She  can  even  recall 
the  butcher's  name,  —  Jack  Hash,  —  Mrs.  Jack  Hash  ;  as 
well  as  a  hot  and  hungry  wonder  that  filled  the  soul  of  the 


38  OLD   MOTHER    GOOSE. 

desolate  child  that  night,  whether  she  should  ever  live  to  be 
as  safe  and  clean  and  respectable  as  Mrs.  Jack  Hash,  and 
how  she  would  garland  her  sitting-room  with  blue  tissue- 
roses  on  Christmas,  if  she  did  ! 

It  may  be  that  her  fancy,  being  wearied,  dwells  more 
minutely  upon  the  half  comical,  wholly  pathetic  irrelevance 
of  these  things  than  upon  the  swift  and  feverish  history  of 
the  crowded  interval  between  their  occurrence  and  the  fact 
that  Helene  Thamre  is  kneeling  in  the  Havermash  hotel 
parlor,  to-night,  fighting  all  the  devils  that  can  haunt  a  beau 
tiful  and  gifted  woman's  soul  for  her  poor,  old,  shameful 
mother's  sake. 

Her  battles  for  bread  in  factories  and  workshops,  when 
first  she  cast  herself,  a  little  girl  of  fifteen  bitter  winters, 
upon  the  perilous  chances  of  the  world  ;  worse  contests, 
such  as  the  outcast  child  of  old  Peg  Mathers  might  not 
escape,  being  unfriended  and  despairing  as  the  child  had 
been ;  her  desperate  taxation  of  her  only  power,  at  last,  — 
the  voice  which  Heaven  gave  her,  pure  and  sweet  as  its 
own  summer  mornings  ;  the  songs  which  she  sang  at  street- 
corners  before  the  twilight  fell ;  the  windows  of  happy 
people  under  which  she  chanted  mournfully  ;  the  first  solo 
which  they  gave  her  at  a  mission  school  into  which  she 
chanced  ;  the  friends  who  heard  it,  and  into  whose  hearts 
God  put  it  to  stretch  down  their  hands  and  draw  her 
straightway  into  Paradise ;  her  studies  and  struggles  since 
in  foreign  lands  ;  the  death  of  the  master  who  had  trained 
her,  and  the  falling  of  his  great  mantle  upon  her  bewil 
dered  name,  —  these  details,  perhaps,  float  but  mistily  before 
her  mind. 

Sharp,  distinct,  pursuing,  cruel,  a  single  question  begins 
to  imprison  her  tortured  thoughts,  it  took  shapes  as  vague 
as  smoke,  clouds,  fogs,  dreams,  at  first ;  it  looms  as  clear-cut 
and  gigantic  as  a  pyramid  before  her  now. 

If  all  the  world  should  know  next  year,  next  week,  to 
morrow,  at  once  and  forever,  what  she  knows  ? 


OLD   MOTHER    GOOSE.  39 

If  Ilavermash  should  learn,  suppose,  to-night,  that  little 
Nell  Mathers,  the  unfathered  and  forgotten  child  of  the 
creature  at  whose  gray  hairs  the  boys  hoot  on  the  streets,  is 
all  there  is  of  Helene  Thamre  (the  very  letters  of  the 
shameful  name  transposed  to  make  the  beautiful,  false  im 
age),  what  would  Havermash,  falling  at  her  feet  this  instant, 
do  the  next  ? 

Perhaps  to  the  woman's  inner  sense  neither  Havermash 
nor  the  world  may  matter  much,  indeed.  She  has  kept, 
through  deadly  peril,  soul  and  body  pure  as  light.  Not  a 
sheltered  wife,  singing  "  Greenville  "  to  her  babies,  vacant  of 
ambitions  and  innocent  of  noisier  powers,  can  show  a  hand 
or  heart  or  name  more  spotless  than  her  own.  And  now  to 
dye  them  deep  in  the  old,  old,  hateful  shame  !  One  must 
have  been  little  Nell  Mathers  and  have  become  Thamre,  I 
fancy,  to  measure  this  recoil. 

Perhaps  it  seems  to  her  more  monstrous  and  impos 
sible  as  the  thought  grows  more  familiar  to  her.  Perhaps 
a  certain  hardness  begins  to  creep  across  the  pallor  of  her 
face ;  or  it  may  be  only  that  she  has  wound  her  fallen  hair 
back  from  it,  and  exposed  the  carved  exactness  and  com 
posure  of  her  features.  It  may  be  that  she  will  argue  to 
herself  again,  forgetting  that  the  gray-haired  vision  left  her 
long  ago  :  — 

"  I  could  never  make  you  happy,  if  I  did.  It  would  al 
ways,  always  be  a  curse  to  both  of  us.  What  have  you  ever 
done  for  me,  that  you  should  demand  a  r.ight  so  cruel  ?  You 
have  no  right,  I  say ;  you  have  no  right !  " 

"And,  if  you  speak,  indeed,  why,  who  believes  you? 
What  can  your  ravings  do  against  Thamre's  denial,  poor  old 
mother  !  " 

Perhaps  she  muses,  half  aloud  :  "  You  need  a  shawl,  I 
see.  You  shall  have  a  bright,  warm  shawl  on  Christmas 
Day.  It  is  better  for  you  than  a  daughter.  Oh  !  a  thousand 
times  !  " 


40  OLD    MOTHER   GOOSE. 

Perhaps  she  laughs  —  as  Thamre  does  not  often  laugh  — - 
most  bitterly  ;  and  that  Joe  Havermash,  knocking  at  her 
door,  hears,  or  thinks  he  hears,  the  sound,  before  she  flashes 
on  him,  tall,  serene,  resplendent,  in  full  dress  and  full  spirit 
for  the  evening. 

The  Happy  Home  Handel  Association  were  satisfied  with 
the  reception  given  by  Havermash  to  their  rendering  of  the 
oratorio  of  the  Messiah  last  Christmas  eve.  On  settees,  in 
the  aisles,  on  the  window-sills,  in  the  corridors,  on  the  stairs, 
Havermash  overflowed  the 'brown-stone  post-office. 

Since  the  incorporation  of  the  city  (which  is  the  Chris 
tian  era  of  Havermash,  and  from  which  everything  dates 
accordingly)  nothing  approaching  such  an  audience  had 
been  collected  for  the  most  popular  of  purposes.  Even 
Signor  Blitz  could  not  have  eaten  swords  or  played  base 
ball  with  uncracked  eggs  before  a  quarter  of  the  spectators  ; 
and  the  New  England  philosopher,  it  is  well  known,  reads 
his  lectures  in  Havermash  to  three  hundred  people. 

In  this  triumph  the  Happy  Home  Handel  Association  felt 
compelled  to  own  that  Thamre  had  her  share,  which  for 
the  H.  H.  H.  A.  was  owning  a  great  deal.  When  little 
Joe  bowed  the  prima  donna  upon  the  somewhat  uncertain 
(green  cambric)  stage,  the  East  Havermash  "  orchestra " 
led  off  in  a  burst  of  applause,  which  threatened  to  shake 
the  post-office  to  its  foundation  stone,  and  which  fired  even 
the  leader's  dignity  of  Joe's  rotund  person  to  ill-concealed 
enthusiasm.  Even  Mrs.  Joe,  gorgeous  upon  the  front  set 
tee,  in  the  opera  dress  that  (it  was  well  known)  she  wore 
in  Boston,  despite  the  ache  of  a  secret  chagrin  that  Miss 
Thamre  had  received  no  callers,  reflected  the  general  pride 
and  pleasure  to  the  very  links  of  her  great  gold  necklace 
and  the  tiniest  wrinkle  of  her  rose-colored  gloves.  Even 
Mrs.  Jack  Hash,  on  her  camp-stool,  by  the  second  left, 
though  disposed  by  nature  and  training  to  be  critical  of 


OLD   MOTHER   GOOSE.  41 

anything  headed  by  a  Havermash,  applauded  softly  with 
the  feathered  tip  of  her  silver-paper  fan  upon  the  frill  of 
her  brown  poplin  upper  skirt.  Never  had  there  been  any 
thing  like  it  known  in  Havermash. 

Like  a  bird,  like  a  snow-flake,  like  a  moonbeam,  like  a 
fancy,  like  nothing  that  the  brown-stone  post-office  was  ac 
customed  to,  Thamre  stole  upon  the  stage.  She  stood  for 
an  instant  poised,  fluttering,  as  if  half  her  mind  were  made 
to  fly,  then  fell  into  her  unapproachable  repose,  and  at  her 
leisure  looked  the  great  audience  over,  shooting  it  here  and 
there  with  her  nervous  glance. 

The  packed  house  drew  and  held  its  breath.  Women 
thought  swiftly :  Silver-gray  satin,  up  to  the  throat  and 
down  to  the  hands.  No  jewelry,  and  a  live  white  lily  on 
her  wrist !  Young  men  saw  her  through  a  mist,  and  half 
turned  their  eyes  away,  as  if  they  had  seen  a  Madonna 
folded  in  a  morning  cloud.  Reporters  pondered,  twirling  a 
moustache  end,  pencil  held  suspended:  Such  severity  is 
the  superbest  affectation,  my  lady  !  but  it  tells,  as  straight 
as  a  carrier-dove.  Before  she- had  opened  her  lips,  Thamre 
had  conquered  Havermash. 

Conscious  of  this  in  an  instant's  flash,  Thamre  grew  un 
conscious  of  it  in  another.  For  an  instant  every  detail  in 
her  house  was  in  her  grasp,  even  to  Mrs.  Jack  Hash  on  the 
camp-stool  and  the  critical  attitude  of  the  silver-paper  fan ; 
even  to  old  Mother  Goose,  half  fading  into  the  shadow  of 
the  distance,  quarreling  with  a  doorkeeper  about  her  ticket. 
'The  next  she  cast  her  audience  from  her  like  a  racer  cast 
ing  his  cloak  to  the  wind.  Pier  face  settled ;  her  wonderful 
eyes  dilated  ;  the  hand  with  the  lily  on  it  closed  over  the 
other  like  a  seal ;  the  soul  of  the  music  entered  into  her, 
incorporate.  She  grew  as  sacred  as  her  theme. 

"  That  little  country  house,"  said  a  critic  present,  who 
had  heard  her  before  her  best  houses  in  the  great  world, 
"  was  on  the  knees  of  its  heart  that  night.  She  never  sung 


42  OLD   MOTHER   GOOSE. 

•  like  that  before,  nor  ever  will  again ;  nor  any  other  artist, 
it  is  my  belief.  She  minded  the  jerks,  of  that  orchestra  and 
the  flats  of  the  Havermash  prime  donne  no  more  than  she 
did  the  whistling  of  the  wind  about  the  post-office  windows. 
She  rendered  the  text  like  an  angel  sent  from  heaven  for 
the  purpose.  When  she  lifted  that  hand  with  the  flower  on 
it  (she  did  it  only  in  the  chorus,  '  Surely,  he  hath  borne  our 
griefs,'  and  in  the  tenor,  '  Behold,  and  see,'  and  at  one  other 
time)  I  could  think  of  nothing  but 

'In  the  beaut}'  of  the  lilies 
Christ  was  born  across  the  sea.' 

Couldn't  get  it  out  of  my  head.  I  meant  she  should  have 
been  encored,  when  it  was  all  over,  to  give  us  that  itself ;  but 
for  what  happened,  you  know." 

Did  I  say  she  grew  as  sacred  as  her  theme  ?  It  might 
almost  be  said  that  its  holy  Personality  environed  and  en 
veloped  her.  Reverent  souls  that  listened  to  her  that  well- 
remembered  night  felt  as  if  the  Man  of  Sorrows  confided  to 
her  the  burden  of  his  heart,  as  if  he  stooped  to  acquaint 
her  with  his  grief,  as  if  the  travail  of  his  soul  fell  upon  her, 
and  that  with  his  satisfaction  she  was  satisfied. 

The  sacred  drama  was  unfolding  to  its  solemn  close,  the 
wildness  of  the  wind  without  was  hushed,  the  Christmas 
stars  were  out,  when  Thamre  glided  into  her  last  solo,  — 
that  palpitating,  proud,  triumphant  thing,  in  which  the  soul 
of  Divine  Love  avenges  itself  against  the  ingenuity  of 
human  despair  :  — 

"If  God  be  for  us,  who  can  be  against  us? 
Who  can  be  against  us  ? 
Who  shall  lay  anything  to  the  charge 
Of  God's  elect? 
It  is  God  that  justifieth. 
Who  is  he  that  condemneth  ? 
It  is  Christ  that  died." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  the  interruption  came. 


OLD   MOTHER    GOOSE.  43 

Shrill  and  sharp  into  the  thrill  of  the  singer's  liquid,  cling 
ing  notes  a  quick  cry  cut :  — 

"  Let  me  see  her  !  Let  me  touch  her  !  I  can't  abear  it 
any  longer !  Let  me  see  my  girl !  "  and,  forcing  her  way 
like  a  stream  of  lava  through  the  packed  and  startled  aisles, 
hot,  wild,  pallid,  and  horrible,  Old  Mother  Goose  leaped, 
before  a  hand  could  stay  her,  on  the  stage. 

"  I  can't  stand  it  any  longer,  Nell !  It  seems  to  craze 
my  head  !  I  knew  you  from  the  time  I  heard  you  laughing 
to  the  depot.  I  did  n't  mean  to  shame  ye  before  so  many 
folks,  and  I  tried  to  find  my  shawl.  They  said  you  wouldn't 
want  to  see  your  poor  old  mother,  Nelly  dear.  But  I  can't 
abear  to  hear  you  sing.  Nell,  why,  Nell,  you  stand  up  like 
the  Almighty  Dead  to  do  it !  " 

The  shock  of  the  shrill  words  and  their  cessation  brought 
the  house  to  its  feet.  Then  came  the  uproar. 

"  Shame  !  "  "  Police  !  "  "  Order  !  "  "  Take  her  out !  " 
"  Arrest  the  hag  !  "  "  Protect  the  lady  !  "  And  after  that 
the  astonishment  and  the  silence  of  death. 

High  above  the  wavering,  peering  mass,  clear  to  the  ap 
prehension  of  every  eye  in  the  house,  appeared  a  lily-bound, 
authoritative  hand.  It  motioned  once  and  dropped  —  as  the 
snow  drops  over  a  grave. 

By  those  who  sat  nearest  her  it  was  said  that  the  flower 
trembled  on  the  lady's  wrist  a  little ;  for  the  rest,  she  stood 
sculptured  like  a  statue,  towering  about  the  piteous  figure 
at  her  feet.  Her  voice,  when  she  spoke,  —  for  she  spoke  in 
the  passing  of  a  thought,  —  rang  out  to  the  remotest  corner 
of  the  galleries,  slipping  even  then,  however,  into  Thamre's 
girlish,  uneven  tones. 

"  If  you  please,  do  not  disturb  the  woman  at  this  moment. 
She  is  a  very  old  woman.  Let  us  hear  what  she  has  to  say. 
Her  hair  is  gray.  Let  us  not  be  rough  or  hasty  till  we  have 
thought  of  what  she  says." 

Old  Mother  Goose  rose  from  the  floor,  where  she  had 


44  OLD   MOTHER   GOOSE. 

fallen,  half -abashed,  perhaps  half -dazed  at  that  which  she 
had  done. 

"  I  've  got  nothing  more  to  say."  She  fumbled  foolishly 
in  the  air  to  wrap  the  shawl  which  she  had  lost  about  her 
lean  and  tattered  shoulders.  "  I  've  said  as  this  famous  lady 
is  my  daughter,  that  was  Nell  Mathers,  and  remembered  by 
many  folks  in  Havermash  thirteen  year  ago.  I  would  n't 
have  shamed  her  quite  so  much  if  I  'd  only  found  my  shawl. 
It 's  cold,  too,  without  a  shawl.  I  '11  go  out  now,  and  you 
can  sing  your  piece  through,  Nelly,  without  the  plague  of 
me.  I  wouldn't  have  told  on  you,  I  think,  but  for  the 
music  and  the  crazy  feeling  that  I  had.  It 's  most  too 
bad,  Nelly,  to  spofl  the  piece.  I  '11  go  right  out." 

She  turned,  stepped  off,  and  staggered  feebly,  turning  her 
bleared  eyes  back  to  feast  upon  the  silent,  shining  figure, 
on  whose  wrist  the  lily  glittered  cruelly,  as  only  lilies  can. 

"  What  a  pretty  sating  gown  you  've  got,  my  dear  !  "  she 
said. 

Mr.  Havermash  could  bear  it  no  longer.  He  took  Old 
Mother  Goose  by  the  sleeve,  hurrying  up,  saying :  "  Come, 
come ! " 

"  The  woman  is  drunk,  Miss  Thamre.  She  shall  not  be 
allowed  to  insult  you  any  more  like  this.  In  the  kindness 
of  your  heart,  you  make  a  mistake,  I  think,  if  you  will 
pardon  me.  See !  she  is  quite  beside  herself.  Something 
is  due  to  the  audience.  This  disturbance  should  not  con 
tinue.  Come,  Peg,  come  !  " 

But  Thamre  shook  her  head.  She  had  grown  now  deadly 
pale,  —  at  least  so  Joe  thought,  letting  go  the  woman's  arm, 
his  own  face  changing  color  sharply,  the  baton  in  his  fat, 
white-gloved  hand  beginning  to  shake. 

"  If  you  please,  Mr.  Havermash,  I  should  like  to  know  — 
the  people  will  pardon  me  a  moment,  I  am  sure  —  I  should 
like  to  know  if  this  poor  old  creature  has  anything  more  to 
say." 


OLD   MOTHER   GOOSE.  45 

"Nothing  more,"  said  Old  Mother  Goose,  shaking  her 
gray  head,  "  but  this,  maybe,  Nelly  dear.  I  says  to  myself, 
when  I  sits  and  hears  you  singing,  —  I  says,  when  you  sang 
them  words  :  '  If  God  be  for  me,  my  girl  won't  be  against 
me  !  My  girl  can't  be  against  me  ! '  —  over  and  over  with 
the  music,  Nelly,  so  I  did  !  If  God  be  for  me,  how  can  my 
girl  be  against  me  ?  " 

It  was  said  that,  when  Helene  Thamre  stretched  down 
her  lily-guarded  hand,  and,  lifting  the  lean,  uncleanly  fingers 
of  Old  Mother  Goose,  pressed  them,  after  a  moment's 
thought,  gently  and  slowly  to  her  heart,  she  heard  the  sud 
den  break  of  sobs  in  the  breathless  house  ;  and,  pausing  to 
listen  to  the  sound,  flushed  fitfully  like  a  child  surprised, 
and  smiled. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  —  her  great  eyes  stabbed  the 
audience  through  and  through  ;  she  lifted  the  old  woman's 
hand,  that  all  might  see,  —  "I  am  sorry  that  your  enter 
tainment  should  be  disturbed.  If  you  will  excuse  me,  I 
will  leave  you  now,  and  take  my  mother  home." 

Home  ?  What  home  was  there  for  Old  Mother  Goose 
and  her  outcast  child  in  Thamre's  hotel  parlors,  on  that  or 
any  other  night  ?  What  home  was  there  for  Thamre  in 
the  God-forsaken  cellar  whence  the  woman  of  the  town  had 
crawled  ?  Apparently,  the  lady  had  not  thought  of  this. 
Joe  found  her  standing  serenely  as  an  angel  when  he  caine 
into  the  stifling  little  green  room.  She  was  still  smiling. 
She  had  buttoned  her  silver  furs  about  the  old  woman's 
shrunken  throat. 

"  This  will  be  warmer  than  your  shawl,  mother,  don't 
you  see  ? "  he  heard  her  say.  "  The  boys  shall  never 
bother  you  in  this,  poor  old  mother  !  There  !  " 

Mrs.  Havermash  came  with  her  husband.  The  Boston 
opera-cloak  was  in  disorder ;  her  rose-colored  gloves  were 
wet  and  spotted. 

"  Miss  Thamre,"  said  Joe,  "  may  I  make  you  acquainted 


46  OLD    MOTHER    GOOSE. 

with  my  wife  ?  We  would  not  urge  upon  you  again  the 
acceptance  of  a  hospitality  which  has  been  already  so  de 
cidedly  refused ;  but  perhaps,  considering  the  state  of  your 
mother's  health,  we  can  make  you  more  comfortable  now 
at  our  home  than  you  can  be  elsewhere.  If  you  will  do 
Mrs.  Havermash  and  myself  the  favor  to  return  with  us  — 
and  her  —  in  our  own  carriage  to-night  "  — 

Joe's  grandfather,  as  has  been  said,  cobbled  shoes  in  a 
wooden  shop  ;  and  even  Mrs.  Joe  to-day  will  drink  with  her 
spoon  in  her  tea-cup,  you  will  notice,  if  you  chance  to  sit 
beside  her  at  a  supper.  But  show  me  bluer  blood,  if  it 
please  you,  than  shall  flow  in  the  veins  of  him  and  his,  to 
preserve  the  existence  of  this  most  cultivated  instinct  and 
the  memory  of  this  most  knightly  deed. 

All  the  world  knows  how  Thamre  suddenly  and  mysteri 
ously  disappeared  a  year  ago  from  public  and  professional 
life.  All  the  world  has  mourned,  wondered,  gossiped, 
caught  at  the  wings  of  rumors,  lost  them,  and  so  mourned 
again  at  this  event. 

All  the  world  does  not  know  with  what  a  curious  develop 
ment  of  pride  in  and  loyalty  to  the  personality  of  little  Nell 
Mathers,  Havermash  has  struggled,  till  struggle  has  become 
useless,  to  enforce  a  reticence  upon  the  subject  of  Thamre' s 
movements  and  their  motives. 

To  a  few  friends,  familiar  with  her  private  history  for  the 
past  year,  its  results  have  seemed  to  crown  its  cost,  I  think. 
At  least,  she  herself,  having  proved  them  so,  has  contrived 
to  radiate  upon  us  the  light  of  her  own  content. 

"  You  do  not  know  the  life,"  she  said,  at  the  outset,  shak 
ing  her  beautiful,  determined  head,  "  if  you  would  ask  me 
to  return  to  it  while  my  mother  lives.  Even  my  name  will 
not  bear  the  scorch  of  hers.  The  world  is  so  hard  on 
women  !  Do  not  urge  me.  Let  me  take  my  way.  Per 
haps  God  and  I  together  can  make  her  poor  old  hand  as 
white  as  yours  or  mine  before  she  dies." 


OLD   MOTHER   GOOSE.  47 

Perhaps  they  did.  It  is  known  that  when  Old  Mother 
Goose  lay  dying  in  her  daughter's  quiet  house  in  Haver- 
mash,  one  frosty  night,  not  many  weeks  ago,  and  after  she 
had  fallen,  as  they  thought,  past  speech  or  recognition,  she 
raised  herself  upon  her  pillow,  and,  stretching  her  hands,  said 
slowly  :  — 

"  Nell !  why,  Nell !  It  is  Christ  that  died  !  If  my  girl 
was  for  me,  Nell,  could  He  be  against  me,  do  you  think  ?  " 

And  further  it  is  only  known  that  Thamre  will  sing  this 
season  in  the  oratorio  of  the  Messiah  on  Christmas  eve. 


THE  LADY  OF  SHALOTT. 


IT  is  not  generally  known  that  the  Lady  of  Shalott  lived 
last  summer  in  an  attic,  at  the  east  end  of  South  Street. 

The  wee-est,  thinnest,  whitest  little  lady  !  And  yet  the 
brightest,  stillest,  and  ah,  such  a  smiling  little  lady  ! 

If  you  had  held  her  up  by  the  window  —  for  she  could 
not  hold  up  herself —  she  would  have  hung  like  a  porcelain 
transparency  in  your  hands.  And  if  you  had  said,  laying 
her  gently  down,  and  giving  the  tears  a  smart  dash,  that 
they  should  not  fall  on  her  lifted  face,  "  Poor  child !  "  the 
Lady  of  Shalott  would  have  said,  "  Oh,  don't !  "  and  smiled. 
And  you  would  have  smiled  yourself,  for  very  surprise  that 
she  should  outdo  you ;  and  between  the  two  there  would 
have  been  so  much  smiling  done  that  one  would  have  fairly 
thought  that  it  was  a  delightful  thing  to  live  last  summer  in 
an  attic  at  the  east  end  of  South  Street. 

This,  perhaps,  was  the  more  natural  in  the  Lady  of  Sha 
lott  because  she  had  never  lived  anywhere  else. 

When  the  Lady  of  Shalott  was  five  years  old,  her  mother 
threw  her  down-stairs  one  day,  by  mistake,  instead  of  the 
whisky-jug. 

This  is  a  fact  which  I  think  Mr.  Tennyson  has  omitted  to 
mention  in  his  poem. 

They  picked  the  Lady  of  Shalott  up  and  put  her  on  the 
bed ;  and  there  she  lay  from  that  day  until  last  summer, 
unless,  as  I  said,  somebody  had  occasion  to  use  her  for  a 
transparency. 


THE   LADY   OF    SHALOTT.  49 

The  mother  and  the  jug  both  went  down  the  stairs  to 
gether  a  few  years  after,  and  never  came  up  at  all ;  and 
that  was  a  great  convenience,  for  the  Lady  of  Shalott's 
palace  in  the  attic  was  not  large,  and  they  took  up  much 
unnecessary  room. 

Since  that  the  Lady  of  Shalott  had  lived  with  her  sister, 
Sary  Jane. 

Sary  Jane  made  nankeen  vests,  at  sixteen  and  three-quar 
ter  cents  a  dozen. 

Sary  Jane  had  red  hair,  and  crooked  shoulders,  and  a 
voice  so  much  like  the  snap  of  a  rat-trap  which  she  some 
times  set  on  the  stairs,  that  the  Lady  of  Shalott  could  sel 
dom  tell  which  was  which  until  she  had  thought  about  it  a 
little  while.  When  there  was  a  rat  caught,  she  was  apt  to 
ask,  "  What  ?  "  and  when  Sary  Jane  spoke  she  more,  often 
than  not  said,  "  There  's  another  !  " 

Her  crooked  shoulders  Sary  Jane  had  acquired  from  sit 
ting  under  the  eaves  of  the  palace  to  sew.  That  physiolog 
ical  problem  was  simple.  There  was  not  room  enough 
under  the  eaves  to  sit  straight. 

Sary  Jane's  red  hair  was  the  result  of  sitting  in  the  sun 
on  July  noons  under  those  eaves,  to  see  to  thread  her  needle. 
There  was  no  question  about  that.  The  Lady  of  Shalott 
had  settled  it  in  her  own  mind,  past  dispute.  Sary  Jane's 
hair  had  been  —  what  was  it  ?  brown  ?  once.  Sary  Jane 
was  slowly  taking  fire.  Who  would  not,  to  sit  in  the  sun 
in  that  palace  ?  The  only  matter  of  surprise  to  the  Lady 
of  Shalott  was  that  the  palace  itself  did  not  smoke.  Some 
times,  when  Sary  Jane  hit  the  rafters,  she  was  sure  that 
she  saw  sparks. 

As  for  Sary  Jane's  voice,  when  one  knew  that  she  made 
nankeen  vests  at  sixteen  and  three-quarter  cents  a  dozen, 
that  was  a  matter  of  no  surprise.  It  never  surprised  the 
Lady  of  Shalott. 


50  THE   LADY   OF    SHALOTT. 

But  Sary  Jane  was  very  cross  ;  there  was  no  denying  that ; 
very  cross. 

And  the  palace.  Let  me  tell  you  about  the  palace.  It 
measured  just  twelve  by  nine  feet.  It  would  have  been 
seven  feet  post  —  if  there  had  been  a  post  in  the  middle  of 
it.  From  the  centre  it  sloped  away  to  the  windows,  where 
Sary  Jane  had  just  room  enough  to  sit  crooked  under  the 
eaves  at  work.  There  were  two  windows  and  a  loose  scuttle 
to  the  palace.  The  scuttle  let  in  the  snow  in  winter  and 
the  sun  in  summer,  and  the  rain  and  wind  at  all  times.  It 
was  quite  a  diversion  to  the  Lady  of  Shalott  to  see  how 
many  different  ways  of  doing  a  disagreeable  thing  seemed 
to  be  practicable  to  that  scuttle.  Besides  the  bed  on  which 
the  Lady  of  Shalott  lay,  there  was  a  stove  in  the  palace, 
two  chairs,  a  very  ragged  rag-mat,  a  shelf,  with  two  notched 
cups  arid  plates  upon  it,  one  pewter  teaspoon,  and  a  look 
ing-glass.  On  washing-days  Sary  Jane  climbed  upon  the 
chair  and  hung  her  clothes  out  through  the  scuttle  on  the 
roof ;  or  else  she  ran  a  little  rope  from  one  of  the  windows 
to  the  other  for  a  drying- rope.  It  would  have  been  more 
exact  to  have  said  on  washing-nights  ;  for  Sary  Jane  always 
did  her  washing  after  dark.  The  reason  was  evident.  If 
the  rest  of  us  were  in  the  habit  of  wearing  all  the  clothes 
we  had,  like  Sary  Jane,  I  have  little  doubt  that  we  should 
do  the  same. 

I  should  mention  that  there  was  no  sink  in  the  Lady  of 
Shalott's  palace  ;  no  water.  There  was  a  dirty  hydrant  in 
the  yard,  four  flights  below,  which  supplied  the  Lady  of 
Shalott  and  all  her  neighbors.  The  Lady  of  Shalott  kept 
her  coal  under  the  bed ;  her  flour,  a  pound  at  a  time,  in  a 
paper  parcel,  on  the  shelf,  with  the  teacups  and  the  pewter 
spoon.  If  she  had  anything  else  to  keep,  it  went  out 
through  the  palace  scuttle  and  lay  on  the  roof.  The  Lady 
of  Shalott's  palace  opened  directly  upon  a  precipice.  The 
lessor  of  the  house  called  it  a  flight  of  stairs.  When  Sary 


THE   LADY   OF    SHALOTT.  51 

Jane  went  up  and  down,  she  went  sideways  to  preserve  her 
balance.  There  were  no  banisters  to  the  precipice.  The 
entry  was  dark.  Some  dozen  or  twenty  of  the  Lady  of 
Shalott's  neighbors  patronized  the  precipice,  and  about  once 
a  week  a  baby  patronized  the  rat-trap,  instead.  Once, 
when  there  was  a  fire-alarm,  the  precipice  was  very  service 
able.  Four  women  and  an  old  man  went  over.  With  one 
exception  (she  was  eighteen,  and  could  bear  a  broken 
collar-bone),  they  will  riot,  I  am  informed,  go  over  again. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  paid  one  dollar  a  week  for  the  rent 
of  her  palace. 

But  then  there  was  a  looking-glass  in  the  palace.  I 
think  I  noticed  it.  It  hung  on  the  slope  of  the  rafters,  just 
opposite  the  Lady  of  Shalott's  window, —  for  she  considered 
that  her  window  at  which  Sary  Jane  did  not  make  nankeen 
vests  at  sixteen  and  three-quarter  cents  a  dozen. 

Now,  because  the  looking-glass  was  opposite  the  window 
at  which  Sary  Jane  did  not  make  vests,  and  because  the 
rafters  sloped,  and  because  the  bed  lay  almost  between  the 
looking-glass  and  the  window,  the  Lady  of  Shalott  was 
happy.  And  because,  to  the  patient  heart  that  is  a  seeker 
after  happiness  "  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is !  " 
(and  the  little  less,  what  worlds  away !)  the  Lady  of  Shalott 
was  proud  as  well  as  happy.  The  looking-glass  measured 
in  inches  ten  by  six.  I  think  that  the  Lady  of  Shalott 
would  have  experienced  rather  a  touch  of  mortification  than 
of  envy  if  she  had  known  that  there  was  a  mirror  in  a 
house  just  around  the  corner  measuring  almost  as  many 
feet.  But  that  was  one  of  the  advantages  of  being  the 
Lady  of  Shalott.  She  never  parsed  life  in  the  comparative 
degree. 

I  suppose  that  one  must  go  through  a  process  of  educa 
tion  to  understand  what  comfort  there  may  be  in  a  ten  by 
six  inch  looking-glass.  All  the  world  came  for  the  Lady 
of  Shalott  into  her  little  looking-glass,  —  the  joy  of  it,  the 


52  THE    LADY   OF    SHALOTT. 

anguish  of  it,  the  hope  and  fear  of  it,  the  health  and  hurt, 
—  ten  by  six  inches  of  it  exactly. 

"  It  is  next  best  to  not  having  been  thrown  down-stairs 
yourself !  "  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott. 

To  tell  the  truth,  it  sometimes  occurred  to  her  that  there 
was  a  monotony  about  the  world.  A  garret  window  like  her 
own,  for  instance,  would  fill  her  sight  if  she  did  not  tip  the 
glass  a  little.  Children  sat  in  it,  and  did  not  play.  They 
made  lean  faces  at  her.  They  were  locked  in  for  the  day, 
and  were  hungry.  She  could  not  help  knowing  how  hun 
gry  they  were,  and  so  tipped  the  glass.  Then  there  was 
the  trap-door  in  the  sidewalk.  She  became  occasionally 
tired  of  that  trap-door.  Seven  people  lived  under  the  side 
walk  ;  and  when  they  lifted  and  slammed  the  trap,  coming 
in  and  out,  they  reminded  her  of  something  which  Sary 
Jane  bought  her  once,  when  she  was  a  very  little  child,  at 
Christmas  time,  —  long  ago,  when  rents  were  cheaper  and 
flour  low.  It  was  a  monkey,  with  whiskers  and  a  calico 
jacket,  who  jumped  out  of  a  box  when  the  cover  was 
lifted ;  and  then  you  crushed  him  down  and  hasped  him  in. 
Sometimes  she  wished  that  she  had  never  had  that  mon 
key,  he  was  so  much  like  the  people  coming  out  of  the 
sidewalk. 

In  fact,  there  was  a  monotony  about  all  the  people  in  the 
Lady  of  Shalott's  looking-glass.  If  their  faces  were  not 
dirty,  their  hands  were.  If  they  had  hats  they  went  with 
out  shoes.  If  they  did  not  sit  in  the  sun  with  their  heads  on 
their  knees,  they  lay  in  the  mud  with  their  heads  on  a  jug. 

**  Their  faces  look  blue  !  "  she  said  to  Sary  Jane. 

"  No  wonder !  "  snapped  Sary  Jane. 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  the  Lady  of  Shalott. 

"  Wonder  is  we  ain't  all  dead  !  "  barked  Sary  Jane. 

"  But  we  ain't,  you  know,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott, 
after  some  thought. 

The  people  in  the  Lady  of  Shalott's  glass  died,  however, 


THE   LADY   OF    SHALOTT.  53 

sometimes,  —  often  in  the  summer ;  more  often  last  summer, 
when  the  attic  smoked  continually,  and  she  mistook  Sary 
Jane's  voice  for  the  rat-trap  every  day. 

The  people  were  jostled  into  pine  boxes  (in  the  glass), 
and  carried  away  (in  the  glass)  by  twilight,  in  a  cart.  Three 
of  the  monkeys  from  the  spring-box  in  the  sidewalk  went, 
in  one  week,  out  into  foul,  purple  twilight,  away  from  the 
looking-glass,  in  carts. 

"  I  'm  glad  of  that,  poor  things  !  "  said  the  Lady  of  Sha- 
lott,  for  she  had  always  felt  a  kind  of  sorrow  for  the  mon 
keys.  Principally,  I  think,  because  they  had  no  glass. 

A^hen  the  monkeys  had  gone,  the  sickly  twilight  folded 
itself  up,  over  the  spring-box,  into  great  feathers,  like  the 
feathers  of  a  wing.  That  was  pleasant.  The  Lady  of 
Shalott  could  almost  put  out  her  fingers  and  stroke  it,  it 
hung  so  near,  and  was  so  clear,  and  brought  such  a  peace- 
fulness  into  the  looking-glass. 

"  Sary  Jane,  dear,  it 's  very  pleasant,"  said  the  Lady  of 
Shalott.  Sary  Jane  said,  it  was  very  dangerous,  the  Lord 
knew,  and  bit  her  threads  off. 

"  And  Sary  Jane,  dear  !  "  added  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  "  I 
see  so  many  other  pleasant  things." 

"  The  more  fool  you  !  "  said  Sary  Jane. 

But  she  wondered  about  it  that  day  over  her  tenth  nan 
keen  vest.  What,  for  example,  could  the  Lady  of  Shalott 


see 


"  Waves  ! "  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  suddenly,  as  if  she 
had  been  asked  the  question.  Sary  Jane  jumped.  She 
said,  "  Nonsense  !  "  For  the  Lady  of  Shalott  had  only  seen 
the  little  wash-tub  full  of  dingy  water  on  Sunday  nights, 
and  the  dirty  little  hydrant  (in  the  glass)  spouting  dingy 
jets.  She  would  not  have  known  a  wave  if  she  had  seen 
it. 

"  But  I  see  waves,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott.  She  felt 
sure  of  it.  They  ran  up  and  down  across  the  glass.  They 


54  THE   LADY   OF    SHALOTT. 

had  green  faces  and  gray  hair.  They  threw  Lack  their 
hands,  like  cool  people  resting,  and  it  seemed  unaccountable, 
at  the  east  end  of  South  Street  last  summer,  that  anything, 
anywhere,  if  only  a  wave  in  a  looking-glass,  could  be  cool 
or  at  rest.  Besides  this,  they  kept  their  faces  clean. 
Therefore  the  Lady  of  Shalott  took  pleasure  in  watching 
them  run  up  and  down  across  the  glass.  That  a  thing 
could  be  clean,  and  green,  and  white,  was  only  less  a  won 
der  than  cool  and  rest  last  summer  in  South  Street. 

"  Sary  Jane,  dear,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  one  day, 
"  how  hot  is  it  up  here  ?  " 

"  Hot  as  Hell !  "  said  Sary  Jane. 

"  I  thought  it  was  a  little  warm,"  said  the  Lady  of  Sha 
lott.  "  Sary  Jane,  dear  ?  Is  n't  the  ya-rd  down  there  a  little 

—  dirty  ?  " 

Sary  Jane  put  down  her  needles  and  looked  out  of  the 
blazing,  blindless  window.  It  had  always  been  a  subject 
of  satisfaction,  to  Sary  Jane  somewhere  down  below  her 
lean  shoulders  and  in  the  very  teeth  of  the  rat-trap,  that  the 
Lady  of  Shalott  could  not  see  out  of  that  window.  So  she 
winked  at  the  window,  as  if  she  would  caution  it  to  hold  its 
burning  tongue,  arid  said  never  a  word. 

"  Sary  Jane,  dear,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  once  more, 
"  had  you  ever  thought  that  perhaps  I  was  a  little  —  weaker 

—  than  I  was  —  once  ?  " 

"  T  guess  you  can  stand  it  if  I  can  !  "  said  the  rat-trap. 

"  Oh,  yes,  dear,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott.  "  I  can  stand 
it  if  you  can." 

"  Well,  then  !  "  said  Sary  Jane.  But  she  sat  and  winked 
at  the  bald  window,  and  the  window  held  its  burning  tongue. 

It  grew  hot  in  South  Street.  It  grew  very  hot  in  South 
Street.  The  lean  children,  in  the  attic  opposite,  fell  sick, 
and  sat  no  longer  in  the  window  making  faces,  in  the  Lady 
of  Shalott's  glass. 

Two   more  monkeys   from  the  spring-box  were  carried 


THE  LADY   OF   SHALOTT.  55 

away  one  ugly  twilight  in  a  cart.  The  purple  wing  that 
hung  over  the  spring-box  lifted  to  let  them  pass ;  and  then 
fell,  as  if  it  had  brushed  them  away. 

"  It  has  such  a  soft  color ! "  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott, 
smiling. 

"  So  has  nightshade  !  "  said  Sary  Jane. 

One  day  a  beautiful  thing  happened.  One  can  scarcely 
understand  how  a  beautiful  thing  could  happen  at  the  east 
end  of  South  Street.  The  Lady  of  Shalott  herself  did  not 
entirely  understand. 

"  It  is  all  the  glass,"  she  said. 

She  was  lying  very  still  when  she  said  it.  She  had  folded 
her  hands,  which  were  hot,  to  keep  them  quiet,  too.  She 
had  closed  her  eyes,  which  ached,  to  close  away  the  glare  of 
the  noon.  At  once  she  opened  them,  and  said  :  — 

"  It  is  the  glass." 

Sary  Jane  stood  in  the  glass.  Now  Sary  Jane,  she  well 
knew,  was  not  in  the  room  that  noon.  She  had  gone  out 
to  see  what  she  could  find  for  dinner.  She  had  five  cents 
to  spend  on  dinner.  Yet  Sary  Jane  stood  in  the  glass.  And 
in  the  glass,  ah  !  what  a  beautiful  thing  ! 

"  Flowers  !  "  cried  the  Lady  of  Shalott  aloud.  But  she 
had  never  seen  flowers.  But  neither  had  she  seen  waves. 
So  she  said,  "  They  come  as  the  waves  come  ; "  and  knew 
them,  and  lay  smiling.  Ah !  what  a  beautiful,  beautiful 
thing ! 

Sary  Jane's  hair  was  fiery  and  tumbled  (in  the  glass),  as 
if  she  had  walked  fast  and  far.  Sary  Jane  (in  the  glass) 
was  winking,  as  she  had  winked  at  the  blazing  window ;  as 
if  she  said  to  what  she  held  in  her  arms,  Don't  tell !  And 
in  her  arms  (in  the  glass),  where  the  waves  were — oh! 
beautiful,  beautiful !  The  Lady  of  Shalott  lay  whispering : 
"  Beautiful,  beautiful !  "  She  did  not  know  what  else  to  do. 
She  dared  not  stir.  Sary  Jane's  lean  arms  (in  the  glass) 
were  full  of  silver  bells ;  they  hung  out  of  a  soft  green 


56  THE   LADY   OF   SHALOTT. 

shadow,  like  a  church  tower  ;  they  nodded  to  and  fro  :  when 
they  shook,  they  shook  out  sweetness. 

"  Will  they  ring  ?  "  asked  the  Lady  of  Shalott  of  the  lit 
tle  glass. 

I  doubt,  in  my  own  inind,  if  you  or  I,  being  in  South 
Street,  and  seeing  a  lily  of  the  valley  (in  a  ten  by  six  inch 
looking-glass)  for  the.  very  first  time,  would  have  asked  so 
sensible  a  question. 

"  Try  'em  and  see,"  said  the  looking-glass.  Was  it  the 
looking-glass?  Or  the  rat-trap  ?  Or  was  it  — 

Oh,  the  beautiful  thing !  That  the  glass  should  have 
nothing  to  do  with  it,  after  all !  That  Sary  Jane,  in  flesh 
and  blood,  and  tumbled  hair,  and  trembling,  lean  arms, 
should  stand  and  shake  an  armful  of  church  towers  and  sil 
ver  bells  down  into  the  Lady  of  Shalott's  little  puzzled  face 
and  burning  hands  ! 

And  that  the  Lady  of  Shalott  should  think  that  she  must 
have  got  into  the  glass  herself,  by  a  blunder,  —  as  the  only 
explanation  possible  of  such  a  beautiful  thing ! 

"  No,  it  is  n't  glass-dreams,"  said  Sary  Jane,  winking  at 
the  church  towers,  where 'they  made  a  solemn  green  shadow 
against  the  Lady  of  Shalott's  poor  cheek.  "  Smell  'em,  and 
see  !  You  can_'most  stand  the  yard  with  them  round.  Smell 
'em  and  see !  It  ain't  the  glass  ;  it 's  the  Flower  Charity." 

"  The  what  ?  "  asked  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  slowly.  . 

"  The  Flower  Charity.     Heaven  bless  it !  " 

"  Heaven  bless  it !  "  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott.  But  she 
said  nothing  more. 

She  laid  her  cheek  over  into  the  shadow  of  the  leaves. 
"  And  there  '11  be  more,"  said  Sary  Jane,  hunting  for  her 
wax.  "  There  '11  be  more,  whenever  I  can  call  for  'em  — 
bless  it  !  " 

"  Heaven  bless  it!  "  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott  again. 

"  But  I  only  got  a  lemon  for  dinner,"  said  Sary  Jane. 

"  Heaven  bless  it !  "  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  with  her 


THE   LADY   OF   SHALOTT.  57 

face  hidden  under  the  leaves.  But  I  don't  think  that  she 
meant  the  lemon,  though  Sary  Jane  did. 

"  They  do  ring,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  by  and  by. 
She  drew  the  tip  of  her  thin  fingers  across  the  tip  of  the 
tiny  bells.  "  I  thought  they  would." 

"  Humph !  "  said  Sary  Jane,  squeezing  her  lemon  under 
her  work-box.  "  I  never  see  your  beat  for  glass-dreams. 
What  do  they  say  ?  Come,  now  !  " 

Now  the  Lady  of  Shalott  knew  very  well  what  they  said. 
Very  well !  But  she  only  drew  the  tips  of  her  poor  fingers 
over  the  tips  of  the  silver  bells.  Never  mind !  It  was  not 
necessary  to  tell  Sary  Jane. 

But  it  grew  hot  in  South  Street.  It  grew  very  hot  in 
South  Street.  Even  the  Flower  Charity  (bless  it !)  could 
not  sweeten  the  dreadf ulness  of  that  yard.  Even  the  pur 
ple  wing  above  the  spring-box  fell  heavily  upon  the  Lady 
of  Shalott's  strained  eyes,  across  the  glass.  Even  the  gray- 
haired  waves  ceased  running  up  and  down  and  throwing 
back  their  hands  before  her ;  they  sat  still,  in  heaps  upon  a 
blistering  beach,  and  gasped  for  breath.  The  Lady  of 
Shalott  herself  gasped  sometimes,  in  watching  them. 

One  day  she  said :  "  There  's  a  man  in  them." 

"  A  what  in  which  ?  "  buzzed  Sary  Jane.  "  Oh  !  There 's 
a  man  across  the  yard,  I  suppose  you  mean.  Among  them 
young  ones,  yonder.  I  wish  he  'd  stop  'em  throwing  stones, 
plague  on  'em  !  See  him,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  see  the  children,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  a 
little  troubled.  Her  glass  had  shown  her  so  many  things 
strangely  since  the  days  grew  hot.  "  But  I  see  a  man,  and 
he  walks  upon  the  waves.  See,  see  !  " 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  tried  to  pull  herself  up  on  the 
elbow  of  her  calico  night-dress,  to  see. 

"  That 's  one  of  them  Hospital  doctors,"  said  Sary  Jane, 
looking  out  of  the  blazing  window.  "  I  Ve  seen  him  round 
before.  Don't  know  what  business  he 's  got  down  here  ; 


53  THE   LADY    OF    SHALOTT. 

but  I  've  seen  him.  He 's  talkin'  to  them  boys  now,  about 
the  stones.  There  !  He  'd  better  !  If  they  don't  look  out, 
they  '11  hit "  — 

"  Oh  the  glass  f  the  glass  !  " 

The  Hospital  Doctor  stood  still ;  so  did  Sary  Jane,  half 
risen  from  her  chair ;  so  did  the  very  South  Street  boys, 
gaping  in  the  "gutter,  with  their  hands  full  of  stones, — 
such  a  cry  rang  out  from  the  palace  window. 

"  Oh,  the  glass  f  the  glass  !  the  glass  !  " 

In  a  twinkling  the  South  Street  boys  were  at  the  mercy 
of  the  South  Street  police  ;  and  the  Hospital  Doctor,  bound 
ing  over  a  beachful  of  shattered,  scattered  waves,  stood,  out 
of  breath,  beside  the  Lady  of  Shalott's  bed. 

"  Oh  the  little  less  and  what  worlds  away." 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  lay  quite  still  in  her  brown  calico 
night-gown  [I  cannot  learn,  by  the  way,  that  Bulfinch's 
studious  and  in  general  trustworthy  researches  have  put 
him  in  possession  of  this  point.  Indeed,  I  feel  justified  in 
asserting  that  Mr.  Bulfinch  never  so  much  as  intimated 

O 

that  the  Lady  of  Shalott  wore  a  brown  calico  night-dress] 
—  the  Lady  of  Shalott  lay  quite  still,  and  her  lips  turned 
blue. 

"Are  you  very  much  hurt?  Where  were  you  struck? 
I  heard  the  cry,  and  came.  Can  you  tell  me  where  the 
blow  was  ?  " 

But  then  the  Doctor  saw  the  glass,  broken  and  blown  in 
a  thousand  glittering  sparks  across  the  palace  floor :  and 
then  the  Lady  of  Shalott  gave  him  a  little  blue  smile. 

"  It 's  not  me.  Never  mind,  I  wish  it  was.  I  'd  rather 
it  was  me  than  the  glass.  Oh,  my  glass  !  My  glass  !  But 
never  mind.  I  suppose  there  '11  be  some  other  —  pleasant 
thing." 

"  Were  you  so  fond  of  the  glass  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor, 
taking  one  of  the  two  chairs  that  Sary  Jane  brought  him, 
and  looking  sorrowfully  about  the  room.  What  other 


THE   LADY   OF   SHALOTT.  59 

"  pleasant  thing  "  could  even  the  Lady  of  Shalott  discover 
in  that  room  last  summer,  at  the  east  end  of  South  Street  ? 

"  How  long  have  you  lain  here  ?  "  asked  the  sorrowful 
Doctor,  suddenly. 

"  Since  I  can  remember,  sir,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott, 
with  that  blue  smile.  "  But  then  I  have  always  had  my 
glass." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  Doctor,  "  the  Lady  of  Shalott !  " 

"  Sir  ?  "  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott. 

"  Where  is  the  pain  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor,  gently,  with 
his  finger  on  the  Lady  of  Shalott's  pulse. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  touched  the  shoulders  of  her  brown 
calico  night-dress,  smiling. 

"  And  what  did  you  see  in  your  glass  ?  "  asked  the  Doc 
tor,  once  more,  stooping  to  examine  "  the  pain." 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  tried  to  tell  him,  but  felt  confused. 
So  she  only  said  that  there  were  waves  and  a  purple  wing, 
and  that  they  were  broken  now,  and  lay  upon  the  floor. 

"  Purple  wings  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor. 

"  Over  the  sidewalk,"  nodded  the  Lady  of  Shalott.  "  It 
comes  up  at  night." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  Doctor,  "  the  malaria.     No  wonder  !  " 

"  And  what  about  the  waves  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor,  talk 
ing  while  he  touched  and  tried  the  little  brown  calico  shoul 
ders.  "  I  have  a  little  girl  of  my  own  down  by  the  waves 
this  summer.  She  —  I  suppose  she  is  no  older  than  you  !  " 

"  I  am  seventeen,  sir,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott.  "  Do 
they  have  green  faces  and  white  hair  ?  Does  she  see  them 
run  up  and  down  ?  I  never  saw  any  waves,  sir,  but  those 
in  my  glass.  I  am  very  glad  to  know  that  your  little  girl 
is  by  the  waves." 

"  Where  you  ought  to  be,"  said  the  Doctor,  half  under 
his  breath.  "  It  is  cruel,  cruel !  " 

"  What  is  cruel  ?  "  asked  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  looking  up 
into  the  Doctor's  face. 


60  THE    LADY   OF    SHALOTT. 

The  little  brown  calico  night-dress  swam  suddenly  before 
the  Doctor's  eyes.  He  got  up  and  walked  across  the  room. 
As  he  walked  he  stepped  upon  the  pieces  of  the  broken 
glass. 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  cried  the  Lady  of  Shalott.  But  then  she 
thought  that  perhaps  she  had  hurt  the  Doctor's  feelings ;  so 
she  smiled,  and  said,  "  Never  mind." 

"  Her  case  could  be  cured,"  said  the  Doctor,  still  under 
his  breath,  to  Sary  Jane.  "  The  case  could  be  cured  yet. 
It  is  cruel !  " 

"  Sir,"  said  Sary  Jane,  —  she  lifted  her  sharp  face  sharply 
out  of  billows  of  nankeen  vests,  —  "it  may  be  because  I 
make  vests  at  sixteen  and  three-quarter  cents  a  dozen,  sir  : 
but  I  say  before  God  there  's  something  cruel  somewhere. 
Look  at  her.  Look  at  me.  Look  at  them  stairs.  Just 
see  that  scuttle,  will  you  ?  Just  feel  the  sun  in  t'  these 
windows.  Look  at  the  rent  we  pay  for  this  'er,e  oven. 
What  do  you  s'pose  the  merkiry  is  up  here  ?  Look  at  them 
pisen  fogs  arisin'  out  over  the  sidewalk.  Look  at  the  dead 
as  have  died  in  the  Devil  in  this  street  this  week.  Then 
look  out  here  !  " 

Sary  Jane  drew  the  Doctor  to  the  blazing,  blindless  win 
dow,  out  of  which  the  Lady  of  Shalott  had  never  looked. 

"  Now  talk  of  curin'  her !  "  said  Sary  Jane. 

The  Doctor  turned  away  from  the  window,  with  a  sudden 
white  face. 

"  The  Board  of  Health  "  — 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  about  the  Board  of  Health  !  "  said  Sary 
Jane. 

"  I  '11  talk  to  them"  said  the  Doctor.  "  I  did  not  know 
matters  were  so  bad.  They  shall  be  attended  to  directly. 
To-morrow  I  leave  town  "  —  He  stopped,  looking  down  at 
the  Lady  of  Shalott,  thinking  of  the  little  lady  by  the  waves, 
whom  he  would  see  to-morrow,  hardly  knowing  what  to  say. 
"  But  something  shall  be  done  at  once.  Meantime,  there  's 
the  Hospital." 


THE    LADY   OF    S1IALOTT.  61 

"  She  tried  Ilorspital  long  ago,"  said  Sary  Jane.  "  They 
said  they  could  n't  do  nothing.  What 's  the  use  ?  Don't 
bother  her.  Let  her  be." 

"  Yes,  let  me  be,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  faintly. 
"  The  glass  is  broken." 

"  But  something  must  be  done!"  urged  the  Doctor,  hur 
rying  away.  "  I  will  attend  to  the  matter  directly,  di 
rectly." 

He  spoke  in  a  busy  doctor's  busy  way.  Undoubtedly  he 
thought  that  he  should  attend  to  the  mafter  directly. 

"You  have  flowers  here,  I  see."  Pie  lifted,  in  hurrying 
away,  a  spray  of  lilies  that  lay  upon  the  bed,  freshly  sent  to 
the  Lady  of  Shalott  that  morning. 

"  They  ring,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  softly.  "  Can 
you  hear  ?  '  Bless  —  it !  Bless  —  it !  '  Ah,  yes,  they 
ring  !  " 

"  Bless  what  ?  "  asked  the  Doctor,  half  out  of  the  door. 

"  The  Flower  Charity,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott. 

"Amen!"  said  the  Doctor.  "But  I'll  attend  to  it  di 
rectly."  And  he  was  quite  out  of  the  door,  and  the  door 
was  shut. 

"  Sary  Jane,  dear  ?  "  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  a  few  min 
utes  after. 

"  Well !  "  said  Sary  Jane. 

"  The  glass  is  broken,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott. 

"  Should  think  I  might  know  that !  "  said  Sary  Jane,  who 
was  down  upon  her  knees  sweeping  shining  pieces  away 
into  a  pasteboard  dust-pan. 

"  Sary  Jane,  dear  ?  "  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott  again. 

"  Dear,  dear  !  "  echoed  Sary  Jane,  tossing  purple  feathers 
out  of  the  window  and  seeming,  to  the  eyes  of  the  Lady 
of  Shalott,  to  have  the  spray  of  green  waves  upon  her  hands. 
"  There  they  go  !  " 

"  Yes,  there  they  go,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott.  But 
she  said  no  more  till  night. 


62  THE    LADY   OF    SHALOTT. 

It  was  a  hot  night  for  South  Street.  It  was  a  very 
hot  night  for  even  South  Street.  The  lean  children  in  the 
attic  opposite  cried  savagely,  like  lean  cubs.  The  monkeys 
from  the  spring-box  came  out  and  sat  upon  -the  lid  for  air. 
Dirty  people  lay  around  the  dirty  hydrant;  and  the  pur 
ple  wing  stretched  itself  a  little  in  a  quiet  way  to  cover 
them. 

"  Sary  Jane,  dear  ?  "  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  at  night. 
"  The  glass  is  broken.  And,  Sary  Jane,  dear,  I  am  afraid 
I  can't  stand  it  as  well  as  you  can." 

Sary  Jane  gave  the  Lady  of  Shalott  a  sharp  look,  and 
put  away  her  nankeen  vests.  She  came  to  the  bed. 

"  It  is  n't  time  to  stop  sewing,  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  Lady  of 
Shalott,  in  faint  surprise.  Sary  Jane  only  said  t  — 

"  Nonsense  !  That  man  will  be  back  again  yet.  He  '11 
look  after  ye,  maybe.  Nonsense  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  "  he  will  come  back 
again.  But  my  glass  is  broken." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Sary  Jane.  But  she  did  not  go  back 
to  her  sewing.  She  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  by 
the  Lady  of  Shalott ;  and  it  grew  dark. 

"  Perhaps  they  '11  do  something  about  the  yards  ;  who 
knows  ?  "  said  Sary  Jane. 

"  But  my  glass  is  broken,"  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott. 

"  Sary  Jane,  dear  !  "  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott.  u  He  is 
walking  on  the  waves." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Sary  Jane.  For  it  was  quite,  quite 
dark. 

"  Sary  Jane,  dear  !  "  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott.  "  Not 
that  man.  But  there  is  a  Man,  and  he  is  walking  on  the 
waves." 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  raised  herself  upon  her  calico  night 
dress  sleeve.  She  looked  at  the  wall  where  the  ten  by  six 
inch  looking-glass  had  hung. 

"  Sary  Jane,  dear  !  "  said  the  Lady  of  Shalott.     "  I  am 


THE   LADY   OF   SHALOTT.  0-3 

glad  that  girl  is  down  by  the  waves.    I  am  very  glad.    But 
the  glass  is  broken." 

Two  days  after,  the  Board  of  Health  at  the  foot  of  the 
precipice  which  the  lessor  called  a  flight  of  stairs,  which 
led  into  the  Lady  of  Shalott's  palace,  were  met  and  stopped 
by  another  board. 

"  This  one  's  got  the  right  of  way,  gentlemen !  "  said 
something  at  the  brink  of  the  precipice,  which  sounded  so 
much  like  a  rat-trap  that  the  Board  of  Health  looked  down 
by  instinct  at  its  individual  and  collective  feet,  to  see  if  they 
were  in  danger,  and  dared  not  by  instinct  stir  a  step. 

The  board  which  had  the  right  of  way  was  a  pine  board, 
and  the  Lady  of  Shalott  lay  on  it,  in  her  brown  calico  night 
dress,  with  Sary  Jane's  old  shawl  across  her  feet.  The 
Flower  Charity  (Heaven  bless  it !)  had  half-covered  the 
old  shawl  with  silver  bells,  and  solemn  green  shadows,  like 
the  shadows  of  church  towers.  And  it  was  a  comfort  to 
Sary  Jane  to  know  that  these  were  the  only  bells  which 
tolled  for  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  and  that  no  other  church 
shadow  fell  upon  her  burial. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  Hospital  Doctor,  "  we  're  too  late, 
I  see.  But  you  'd  better  go  on." 

The  gentlemen  of  the  Board  of  Health  went  on  ;  and  the 
Lady  of  Shalott  went  on. 

The  Lady  of  Shalott  went  out  into  the  cart  that  had  car 
ried  away  the  monkeys  from  the  spring-box,  and  the  pur 
ple  wing  lifted  to  let  her  pass ;  then  fell  again,  as  if  it  had 
brushed  her  away. 

The  Board  of  Health  went  up  the  precipice,  and  stood 
by  the  window  out  of  which  the  Lady  of  Shalott  had  never 
looked. 

They  sent  orders  to  the  scavenger,  and  orders  to  the 
Water  Board,  and  how  many  other  orders  nobody  knows ; 


64  THE   LADY   OF    SHALOTT. 

and  they  sprinkled  themselves  with  camphor,  and  they  went 
their  ways. 

And  the  board  that  had  the  Right  of  Way  went  its  way, 
too.  And  Sary  Jane  folded  up  the  shawl,  which  she  could 
not  afford  to  lose,  and  came  home,  and  made  nankeen  vests 
at  sixteen  and  three-quarter  cents  a  dozen  in  the  window 
out  of  which  the  Lady  of  Shalott  had  never  looked. 


THE   TRUE  STORY   OF   GUENEVER. 


'  IN  all  the  wide,  dead,  old  world  of  story,  there  is  to 
me  no  wraith  more  piteously  pursuant  than  the  wraith  of 
Guenever.  No  other  voice  has  in  it  the  ring  of  sweet  har 
monies  so  intricately  bejangled ;  no  other  face  turns  to  us 
eyes  of  such  luminous  entreaty  from  slow  descents  of  de 
spair;  no  other  figure,  majestic  though  in  ruins,  carries 
through  every  strained  muscle  and  tense  nerve  and  full 
artery  so  magnetic  a  consciousness  of  the  deeps  of  its  de 
served  humiliation  and  the  height  of  its  lost  privilege.  One 
pauses  as  before  an  awful  problem,  before  the  nature  of  this 
miserable  lady.  A  nature  wrought,  it  is  plain,  of  the  finer 
tissues,  since  it  not  only  won  but  returned  the  love  of  the 
blameless  king.  One  follows  her  young  years  with  bated 
breath.  We  see  a  delicate,  high-strung,  impulsive  creature, 
a  trifle  mismated  to  a  faultless,  unimpulsive  man.  We 
shudder  to  discover  in  her,  before  she  discovers  it  for  or  in 
herself,  that,  having  given  herself  to  Arthur,  she  yet  has 
not  given  all ;  that  there  arises  now  another  self,  an  exist 
ence  hitherto  unknown,  unsuspected,  —  a  character  groping, 
unstable,  unable,  a  wandering  wind,  a  mist  of  darkness,  a 
chaos,  over  which  Arthur  has  no  empire,  of  which  he  has 
no  comprehension,  and  of  which  she  —  whether  of  Nature  or 
of  training  who  shall  judge?  —  has  long  since  discrowned 
herself  the  Queen.  Guenever  is  unbalanced,  crude,  prime 
val  woman.  She  must  be  at  once  passionately  wooed  and 
peremptorily  ruled ;  and  in  wooing  or  in  ruling  there  must 


66  THE   TRUE   STORY   OF   GUENEVER. 

be  no  despondencies  or  declines.  There  are  no  soundings 
to  be  found  in  her  capacities  of  loving,  as  long  as  the 
mariner  cares  to  go  on  striking  for  them.  At  his  peril  let 
him  hold  his  plummet  lightly  or  weary  of  the  sweet  toil 
taken  in  the  measure  of  it ;  at  his  peril,  and  at  hers. 

To  Arthur  love  is  a  state,  not  a  process ;  an  atmosphere, 
not  a  study  ;  an  assurance,  not  a  hope  ;  a  fact,  not  an  ideal. 
He  is  serene,  reflective,  a  statesman.  The  Queen  is  intense, 
ill-educated,  idle.  Undreamed  of  by  the  one,  unsuspected 
by  the  other,  they  grow  apart.  Ungoverned,  how  shall 
Guenever  govern  herself  ?  Misinterpreted,  value  herself  ? 
Far  upon  the  sunlit  moor,  a  speck  against  the  pure  hori 
zon,  Launcelot  rides,  —  silent,  subtle,  swift,  as  Fate  rides 
ever 

Poor  Guenever  !  After  all,  poor  Guenever  !  Song  and 
story,  life  and  death  are  so  cruel  to  a  woman.  To  Laun 
celot,  repentant,  is  given  in  later  life  the  best  thing  left 
upon  earth  for  a  penitent  man  —  a  spotless  son.  To  Laun 
celot  is  reserved  the  aureola  of  that  blessed  fatherhood  from 
which  sprang  the  finder  of  the  Holy  Grael,  "  pure  in  thought 
and  word  and  deed."  To  Guenever  is  given  the  convent 
and  solitary  expiation ;  to  Guenever  disgrace,  exile,  and 
despair.  Prone  upon  the  convent  floor,  our  fancy  leaves 
her,  kissing  Arthur's  kingly  and  forgiving,  but  departing 
feet,  half  dead  for  joy  because  he  bids  her  hope  that  in 
some  other  world  —  in  which  she  has  not  sinned  —  those 
spotless  feet  may  yet  return  to  her,  her  true  and  stronger 
soul  return  to  him  ;  but  neither  in  this  world  —  never  in 
this.  Poor  soul !  Erring,  weak,  unclean ;  but  for  that, 
and  that,  and  that,  poor  soul !  poor  soul !  I  can  never  bear 
to  leave  her  there  upon  the  convent  floor.  I  rebel  against 
the  story.  I  am  sure  the  half  of  it  was  never  told  us.  It 
must  be  that  Arthur  went  back  some  autumn  day  and 
brought  her  gravely  home.  It  must  be  that  penitence  and 
patience  and  acquired  purity  shall  sometime  win  the  respect 


THE   TRUE   STOKY   OF   GUENEVEK.  67 

and  confidence  of  men,  as  they  receive  the  respect  and  con 
fidence  of  God.  It  must  be  that  at  some  distant  but  ap 
proaching  day  something  of  the  tenderness  of  divine  stain- 
lessness  shall  creep  into  the  instinct  of  human  imperfection, 
and  a  repentant  sinner  become  to  human  estimates  an  object 
sorrowful,  appalling,  but  appealing,  sacred,  and  sweet. 

Who  can  capture  the  where,  the  how,  the  wherefore  of  a 
train  of  fancy  ?  Was  it  because  I  thought  of  Guenever  that 
I  heard  the  story  ?  Or  because  I  heard  the  story  that  I 
thought  of  Guenever  ?  My  washwoman  told  it,  coming  in 
that  bitter  day  at  twilight  and  sitting  by  the  open  fire,  as  I 
had  bidden  her,  for  rest  and  warmth.  What  should  she 
know  of  the  Bulfinch  and  Ellis  and  Tennyson  and  Dunlop, 
that  had  fallen  from  my  lap  upon  the  cricket  at  her  feet, 
that  she  should  sit,  with  hands  across  her  draggled  knees, 
and  tell  me  such  a  story  ?  Or  were  Dunlop  and  the  rest 
untouched  upon  the  library  shelves  till  after  she  had  told 
it  ?  Whether  the  legend  drew  me  to  the  fact,  or  the  fact 
impelled  me  to  the  legend  ?  Indeed,  why  should  I  know  ? 
It  is  enough  that  I  heard  the  story.  She  told  it  in  her  way. 
I,  for  lack  of  her  fine,  realistic  manner,  must  tell  it  in  my 
own. 

Queen  Guenever  had  the  toothache.  Few  people  can 
look  pretty  with  the  toothache.  The  cheeks  of  royalty  it 
self  will  swell,  and  princely  eyelids  redden,  and  queenly 
lips  assume  contours  as  unocsthetic  as  the  kitchen-maids', 
beneath  affliction  so  plebeian.  But  Guenever  looked 
pretty. 

She  abandoned  herself  to  misery,  to  begin  with,  in  such 
£  royal  fashion.  And,  by  the  way,  we  may  notice  that 
in  nothing  does  blood  "  tell "  more  sharply  than  in  the  en 
durance  of  suffering.  There  is  a  vague  monotony  in  the 
processes  of  wearing  pleasure.  Happy  people  are  very 
much  alike.  In  the  great  republic  of  joy  we  find  tremen- 


68  THE  TRUE   STORY   OF   GUENEVER. 

dous  and  humiliating  levels.  When  we  lift  our  heads  to  bear 
the  great  crown  of  pain,  all  the  "  points  "  of  the  soul  begin 
to  make  themselves  manifest  at  once. 

Guenever  yielded  herself  to  this  vulgar  agony  with  a 
beautiful  protest.  She  had  protested,  indeed,  all  winter,  for 
that  tooth  had  ached  all  winter  ;  had  never  even  told  her 
husband  of  it  till  yesterday.  She  had  flung  herself  upon 
the  little  crocheted  cricket  by  the  sitting-room  fire,  with  her 
slender,  tightly-sleeved  arm  upon  the  chintz-covered  rock 
ing-chair,  and  her  erect,  firm  head  upon  her  arm.  Into  the 
palm  of  the  other  hand  the  offending  cheek  crept,  like  a 
bird  into  its  nest ;  with  a  caressing,  nestling  movement,  as 
if  that  tiny  hand  of  hers  were  the  only  object  in  the  world 
to  which  Guenever  did  not  scorn  to  say  how  sorry  she  was 
for  herself.  The  color  of  her  cheeks  was  high  but  fine. 
Her  eyes  —  Guenever,  as  we  all  know,  had  brown  eyes, 
more  soft  than  dark  —  were  as  dry  as  they  were  iridescent. 
Other  women  might  cry  for  the  toothache  !  All  the  curves 
of  the  exhausted  attitude  she  had  chosen  had  in  them  the 
bewitching  defiance  of  a  hard  surrender  to  a  power  stronger 
than  herself,  with  which  certain  women  meet  every  alien 
influence,  from  a  needle-prick  to  a  heartbreak.  She  wore 
a  white  apron  and  a  white  ribbon  against  a  dress  of  a  soft 
dark  brown  color ;  and  the  chintz  of  the  happy  chair,  whose 
stiff  old  elbows  held  her  beautiful  outline,  was  of  black  and 
gold,  with  birds  of  paradise  in  the  pattern.  There  was  a 
stove,  with  little  sliding  doors,  in  Guenever's  sitting-room. 
Arthur  thought  it  did  not  use  so  very  much  more  wood  to 
open  the  doors,  and  was  far  healthier.  Secretly  he  liked 
to  see  Guenever  in  the  bird-of-paradise  chair,  with  the 
moody  firelight  upon  her ;  but  he  had  never  said  so  —  it 
was  not  Arthur's  "  way."  Launcelot,  now,  for  instance 
had  said  something  to  that  effect  several  times. 

Launcelot,  as  all  scholars  of  romantic  fiction  know,  was 
the  young  bricklayer  to  whom  Arthur  and  Guenever  had 


THE   TRUE   STORY    OF   GUENEVER.  69 

rented  the  spare  room  when  the  hard  times  came  on,  —  a 
good-natured,  inoffensive  lodger  as  one  could  ask  for,  and 
quite  an  addition,  now  and  then,  before  the  little  sliding 
doors  of  the  open  stove,  on  a  sober  evening,  when  she  and 
Arthur  were  dull,  as  Guenever  had  said.  To  tell  the  truth, 
Arthur  was  often  dull  of  late,  what  with  being  out  of  work 
so  much,  and  the  foot  he  lamed  with  a  rusty  nail.  King 
Arthur,  it  is  unnecessary  to  add,  was  a  master  carpenter. 

King  Arthur  came  limping  in  that  evening,  and  found 
the  beautiful,  protesting,  yielding  figure  in  the  black  and 
golden  chair.  The  Queen  did  not  turn  as  he  came  in: 
One  gets  so  used  to  one's  husband  !  And  the  heavy,  uneven 
step  he  left  upon  the  floor  jarred  upon  her  aching  nerves. 
Launcelot,  when  he  had  come,  about  an  hour  since,  to  in 
quire  how  she  was,  had  bounded  down  the  stairs  as  merrily 
as  a  school-boy,  as  lightly  as  a  hare,  and  turned  his  knightly 
feet  a-tip-toe  as  he  crossed  the  room  to  say  how  sorry  he 
felt  for  her ;  to  stand  beside  her  in  the  moody  light,  to  gaze 
intently  down  upon  her,  then  to  ask  why  Arthur  was  not 
yet  at  home  ;  to  wonder  were  she  lonely  ;  to  say  he  liked 
the  ribbon  at  her  throat ;  to  say  he  liked  a  hundred  things ; 
to  say  it  quite  unmanned  him  when  he  saw  her  suffer ;  to 
start  as  if  he  would  say  more  to  her,  and  turn  as  if  he  would 
have  touched  her,  and  fly  as  if  he  dared  not,  and  out  into 
the  contending,  mad  March  night.  For  the  wind  blew  that 
night !  To  the  last  night  of  her  life  Queen  Guenever  will 
not  forget  the  way  it  blew  ! 

"  Take  some  Drops,"  said  Arthur.  What  a  tiresome 
manner  Arthur  had  of  putting  things  !  Some  Drops,  indeed  ! 
There  was  nothing  Guenever  wanted  to  take.  She  wanted, 
in  fact,  to  be  taken ;  to  be  caught  and  gathered  to  her 
husband's  safe,  broad  breast ;  to  be  held  against  his  faithful 
heart ;  to  be  fondled  and  crooned  over  and  cuddled.  She 
would  have  her  aching  head  imprisoned  in  his  healthy 
hands.  And  if  he  should  think  to  kiss  the  agonizing  cheek, 


70  THE   TRUE   STORY   OF   GUENEVER. 

as  she  would  kiss  a  woman's  cheek  if  she  loved  her  and 
she  had  the  toothache  ?  But  Arthur  never  thought !  Men 
were  so  dull  at  things.  Only  women  knew  how  to  take 
care  of  one  another.  Only  women  knew  the  infinite  fine 
languages  of  love.  A  man  was  tender  when  he  thought  of 
it,  in  a  blunt,  broad  way. 

There  might  be  men  —  One  judged  somewhat  from 
voices  ;  and  a  tender  voice  —  Heaven  forgive  her !  Though 
he  spoke  with  the  tongues  of  all  angels,  and  the  music  of  all 
spheres,  and  the  tenderness  of  all  loves,  what  was  any  man's 
mortal  voice  to  her  —  a  queen,  the  wife  of  Arthur,  blame 
less  king  of  men  ? 

The  wife  of  Arthur  started  from  the  old  chair  whereon 
the  birds  of  paradise  seemed  in  the  uneven  firelight  to  be 
fluttering  to  and  fro.  The  color  on  her  cheeks  had  deep 
ened  painfully,  and  she  lifted  her  crowned  head  with  a 
haughty  motion  towards  her  husband's  face. 

"  I  'm  sure  I  'd  try  the  Drops,"  repeated  Arthur. 

"  I  '11  have  it  out !  "  snapped  Guenever.  "  I  don't  be 
lieve  a  word  of  its  being  neuralgia.  I  '11  have  them  all  out, 
despite  him  ! " 

Guenever  referred  to  the  court  dentist. 

"  I  '11  have  them  out  and  make  a  fright  of  myself  once 
for  all,  and  go  mumbling  round.  I  doubt  if  anybody 
would  find  it  made  any  difference  to  anybody  how  any 
body  looked." 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  there  was  a  certain  remote  vague 
ness  in  this  remark.  King  Arthur,  who  was  of  a  metaphys 
ical  temperament,  sighed.  He  was  sorry  for  the  Queen  — • 
so  sorry  that  he  went  and  set  the  supper-table,  to  save  her 
from  the  draughts  that  lurked  even  in  the  royal  pantry  that 
mad  March  night.  He  loved  the  Queen  —  so  much  that  he 
would  have  been  a  happy  man  to  sit  in  the  bird-of-paradise 
rocking-chair  and  kiss  that  aching,  sweet  cheek  of  hers  till 
supper-time  to-morrow,  if  that  would  help  her.  But  he 


THE   TKUE   STOKY   OF   GUENEVEK.  71 

supposed,  if  she  had  the  toothache,  she  would  n't  want  to 
be  touched.  He  knew  he  should  n't.  So,  not  knowing 
what  else  to  do,  he  just  limped  royally  about  and  got  the 
supper,  like  a  dear  old  dull  king  as  he  was. 

If  Queen  Guenever  appreciated  this  little  kingly  atten 
tion,  who  can  say  ?  She  yielded  herself  with  a  heavy  sigh 
once  more  to  the  arms  of  the  chintz  rocking-chair,  and 
ached  in  silence.  Her  face  throbbed  in  time  to  the  pulses 
of  the  wind.  What  a  wind  it  was  !  It  seemed  to  come 
from  immense  and  awful  distances,  gathering  slow  forces 
as  it  fled,  but  fleeing  with  a  compressed,  rebellious  roar,  like 
quick  blood  chained  within  the  tissues  of  a  mighty  artery, 
beating  to  and  fro  as  it  rushed  to  fill  the  heart  of  the  black 
and  lawless  night. 

It  throbbed  so  resoundingly  against  the  palace  windows 
that  the  steps  of  Launcelot,  blending  with  it,  did  not  strike 
the  Queen's  ears  till  he  stood  beside  her,  in  the  firelight. 
Arthur,  setting  the  supper-table,  had  heard  the  knightly 
knock,  and  bidden  their  friend  and  lodger  enter  (as  King 
Arthur  bade  him  always)  with  radiant,  guileless  eyes. 

Sir  Launcelot  had  a  little  bottle  in  his  hand.  He  had 
been  to  the  druggist's.  There  was  a  druggist  to  the  king 
just  around  the  corner  from  the  palace. 

"  It 's  laudanum,"  said  Launcelot.  "  I  got  it  for  your 
tooth.  I  wish  you  'd  try  it.  I  could  n't  bear  to  see  you 
suffer." 

"  I  'm  half  afraid  to  have  Guenever  take  laudanum,"  said 
Arthur,  coming  up.  "  It  takes  such  a  mite  of  anything  to 
influence  my  wife.  The  doctor  says  it  is  her  nerves.  I 
know  he  would  n't  give  her  laudanum  when  her  arm  was 
hurt.  But  it 's  just  as  good  in  you,  Sir  Launcelot." 

Guenever  thought  it  very  good  in  him.  She  lifted  her 
flushed  and  throbbing  face  to  tell  him  so;  but,  in  point  of 
fact,  she  told  him  nothing.  For  something  in  Sir  Launce- 
lot's  eyes,  the  wife  of  Arthur  could  not  speak. 


72  THE   TRUE   STOEY   OF   GUENEVER. 

She  motioned  him  to  put  the  bottle  on  the  shelf,  and 
signified  by  a  slight  gesture  peculiar  to.  herself  —  a  little 
motion  of  the  shoulders,  as  tender  as  it  was  imperious  —  her 
will  that  he  should  leave  her. 

Now  Launcelot,  we  see,  was  plainly  sorry  for  Guenever. 
Wa^  it  then  a  flitting  tenderer  than  sorrow  that  she  had  seen 
within  his  knightly  eyes  ?  Only  Guenever  will  ever  know ; 
for  Arthur,  on  his  knees  upon  the  crocheted  cricket  before 
the  palace  fire,  was  toasting  graham  bread. 

Guenever,  on  her  knees  before  the  rocking-chair,  sat  very 
still.  Her  soft  brown  eyes,  wide  open,  almost  touched  the 
cool,  smooth  chintz  where  the  birds  of  paradise  were  flying 
on  a  pall-black  sky.  It  seemed  to  her  strained  vision,  sit 
ting  so,  that  the  birds  flew  from  her  as  she  looker!  at  them, 
and  vanished  ;  and  that  the  black  sky  alone  was  left.  The 
eyes  that  watched  the  golden  birds  departing  were  fair  and 
still,  like  the  eyes  of  children  just  awake.  It  was  a  child's 
mouth,  as  innocent  and  fair,  that  Guenever  lifted  just  that 
minute  suddenly  to  Arthur,  with  a  quick,  unqueenly,  ap 
pealing  smile. 

"  Kiss  me,  dear  ?  "  said  Guenever,  somewhat  disconnect 
edly. 

"  Why,  yes  !  "  said  Arthur. 

He  was  n't  able  to  follow  the  train  of  thought  exactly. 
It  was  never  clear  to  him  why  Guenever  should  want  to  be 
kissed  precisely  in  the  middle  of  a  slice  of  toast.  And  the 
graham  bread  was  burned.  But  he  kissed  the  Queen,  and 
they  had  supper ;  and  he  eat  the  burnt  slice  himself,  and 
said  nothing  about  it.  That,  too,  was  one  of  Arthur's 
"  ways." 

"  Only,"  said  Guenever,  as  the  King  contentedly  finished 
the  last  black  crust,  "  I  wish  the  wind  would  stop." 

"  What 's  the  trouble  with  the  wind  ?  "  asked  Arthur. 
"  I  thought  it  was  well  enough." 

"  It  must  be  well  enough,"  said  the  Queen,  and  she  shook 


THE   TRUE   STORY   OF   GUENEVER.  73 

her   little  wliite  fist   at   the  window.     "It   shall  be  well 
enough ! " 

For  the  pulse  of  the  wind  ran  wildly  against  the  palace 
as  Guenever  was  speaking,  and  throbbed  and  bounded  and 
beat,  as  if  the  heart  of  the  March  night  would  break. 

All  this  was  long,  long,  long  ago.  How  long  Guenever 
can  never  tell.  Days,  weeks,  months, — few  or  many,  swift 
L  or  slow,  —  of  that  she  cannot  answer.  Passion  takes  no 
count  of  time ;  peril  marks  no  hours  or  minutes ;  wrong 
makes  its  own  calendar ;  and  misery  has  solar  systems  pe 
culiar  to  itself.  It  seemed  to  her  years,  it  seemed  to  her 
days,  according  to  her  tossed,  tormented  mood. 

It  is  in  the  nature  of  all  passionate  and  uncontrolled 
emotion  to  prey  upon  and  weaken  the  forces  of  reflective 
power,  as  much  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  controlled  emotion 
to  strengthen  them.  Guenever  found  in  herself  a  marked 
instance  of  this  law.  It  seemed  to  her  sometimes  that  she 
knew  as  little  of  her  own  story  as  she  did  of  that  of  any  err 
ing  soul  at  the  world's  width  from  her.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  her  very  memory  had  yielded  in  the  living  of  it,  like 
the  memory  of  a  person  in  whose  brain  insidious  disease 
had  begun  to  fasten  itself.  So  subtle  and  so  sure  had  been 
the  disease  which  gnawed  at  the  Queen's  heart,  that  she 
discovered  with  a  helpless  terror  —  not  unlike  that  one 
might  feel  in  whom  a  cancerous  process  had  been  long 
and  undetected  working  —  that  her  whole  nature  was  lower- 
ing  its  tone  in  sympathy  with  her  special  weakness.  She 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  become,  or  to  feel  herself  become, 
a  poisoned  thing. 

We  may  wonder,  does  not  the  sense  of  guilt  —  not  the 
sensitiveness  to,  but  the  sense  of  guilt  —  come  often  as  a 
sharp  and  sudden  experience  ?  Queen  Guenever,  at  least, 
felt  stunned  by  it.  Distinctly,  as  if  it  and  she  were  alone 
in  the  universe,  she  could  mark  the  awful  moment  when  it 


74  THE   TRUE   STORY   OP   GUENEVER. 

came  to  her.  Vivid  as  a  blood-red  rocket  shot  against  her 
stormy  sky,  that  moment  whirred  and  glared  before  her. 

It  was  a  fierce  and  windy  night,  like  that  in  which  she 
had  the  toothache,  when  she  and  the  King  had  eaten  such 
a  happy  supper  of  burnt  toast  (for  hers  was  burnt,  too,  al 
though  she  would  n't  have  said  so  for  the  world,  since  the 
King  had  got  so  tired  and  warm  about  it).  How  happy 
they  had  been  that  night !  Sir  Launcelot  did  not  come 
again  after  supper,  dimly  feeling,  despite  the  laudanum, 
that  the  Queen  had  dismissed  him  for  the  evening.  She 
and  Arthur  had  the  evening  to  themselves.  It  was  the  first 
evening  they  had  been  alone  together  for  a  long  time. 
Arthur  sat  in  the  chintz  rocking-chair.  He  held  her  in  his 
lap.  He  comforted  her  poor  cheek  with  his  huge,  warm 
hand.  His  shining,  kingly  eyes  looked  down  on  her  like 
stars  from  Heaven.  He  said  :  — 

"  If  it  was  n't  for  your  tooth,  little  woman,  how  happy 
we  would  be." 

And  Guenever  had  laughed  and  said :  "  What 's  a  tooth 
ache  ?  I  'm  content,  if  you  are."  And  then  they  laughed 
together,  and  the  golden  birds  upon  the  old  chair  had  seemed 
to  flit  and  sing  before  her ;  and  brighter  and  sweeter,  as 
they  watched  her,  glimmered  Arthur's  guileless  eyes. 

The  stars,  were  fallen  now ;  the  heavens  were  black  ;  the 
birds  of  paradise  had  flown ;  the  wind  was  abroad  mightily 
and  cold ;  there  was  snow  upon  the  ground ;  and  she  and 
Launcelot  were  fleeing  through  it  and  weeping  as  they 
fled. 

Guenever,  at  least,  was  weeping.  All  the  confusion  of 
the  miserable  states  and  processes  which  had  led  her  to  this 
hour  had  cleared  away,  murky  clouds  from  a  lurid  sky. 
Suddenly,  by  a  revelation  awful  as  some  that  might  shock 
a  soul  upon  the  day  of  doom,  she  knew  that  she  was  no 
longer  a  bewildered  or  a  pitiable,  but  an  evil  creature. 

A  gossip  in  the  street,  an  old  neighbor  who  used  to  bor- 


THE    TRUE   STORY   OF   GUENEVER.  75 

row  eggs  of  her,  had  spoken  in  her  hearing,  as  she  and 
Launcelot  passed  swiftly  through  the  dark,  unrecognized, 
at  the  corner  of  the  Palace  Court,  and  had  said:  — 

"  Guenever  has  fled  with  Launcelot.  The  Queen  has 
left  the  King.  All  the  world  will  know  it  by  to-morrow." 

These  words  fell  upon  the  Queen's  ear  distinctly.  They 
tolled  after  her  through  the  bitter  air.  She  fled  a  few 
steps,  and  stopped. 

"  Launcelot !  "  she  cried,  "  what  have  we  done  ?  Why 
are  we  here?  Let  me  go  home!  Oh!  what  have  I 
done  ?  " 

She  threw  out  her  arms  with  that  tender,  imperious  gest 
ure  of  hers  —  more  imperious  than  tender  now  —  which 
Launcelot  knew  so  well. 

Strange  !  Oh  !  strange  and  horrible  !  How  came  it  to 
be  thus  with  her  ?  How  came  she  to  be  alone  with  Launce 
lot  in  the  blinding  night?  The  Queen  fled  from  the  King  ? 
Guenever  false  to  Arthur? 

Guenever,  pausing  in  the  cruel  storm,  looked  backward 
at  her  footsteps  in  the  falling  snow.  Her  look  was  fixed 
and  frightened  as  a  child's.  Her  memory  seemed  to  her  like 
snow  of  all  that  must  have  led  her  to  this  hour. 

She  knew  not  what  had  brought  her  hither,  nor  the  way 
by  which  she  came.  She  was  a  creature  awakened  from  a 
moral  catalepsy.  With  the  blessed  impulse  of  the  Prodigal, 
old  as  Earth's  error,  sweet  as  Heaven's  forgiveness,  she 
turned  and  cried  :  "  I  repent !  I  repent !  I  will  go  home  to 
my  husband,  before  it  is  too  late !  " 

"  It  is  too  late  !  "  said  a  bitter  voice  beside  her.  "  It  is  too 
late  already  for  repentance,  Guenever." 

Was  it  Launcelot  who  spoke,  or  the  deadly  wind  that 
shrieked  in  passing  her  ?  Guenever  could  never  say.  A 
sickening  terror  took  possession  of  her.  She  felt  her  very 
heart  grow  cold,  as  she  stood  and  watched  her  foot-prints, 
on  which  the  snow  was  falling  wild  and  fast. 


76  THE   TRUE   STORY    OF   GUENEVER. 

It  was  a  desolate  spot  in  which  she  and  Launcelot  stood. 
They  had  left  the  safe,  sweet  signs  of  holy  human  lives  and 
loves  behind  them.  They  were  quite  alone.  A  wide  and 
windy  moor  stretched  from  them  to  a  forest,  on  which  a 
horror  of  great  darkness  seemed  to  hang.  Behind  them,  in 
the  deserted  distance,  gleamed  the  palace  lights.  Within 
these  the  Queen  saw,  or  fancied  that  she  saw,  the  shadow 
of  the  King,  moving  sadly  to  and  fro,  against  the  drawn 
curtain,  from  behind  which  the  birds  of  paradise  had  fled 
forever. 

From  palace  to  wilderness  her  footsteps  lay  black  in  the 
falling  snow.  As  she  gazed,  the  increasing  storm  drifted, 
and  here  and  there  they  blurred  and  whitened  over  and 
were  lost  to  sight. 

So  she,  too,  would  whiten  over  her  erring  way.  Man  was 
not  more  merciless  than  Nature. 

"  I  will  retrace  them  all !  "  cried  Guenever. 

"  You  can  never  retrace  the  first  of  them."  said  again 
bitterly  beside  her  Launcelot  or  the  deathly  wind.  "  Man 
is  more  merciless  than  Nature.  There  is  no  way  back  for 
you  to  the  palace  steps.  In  all  the  kingdom,  there  is  no 
soul  to  bid  you  welcome,  should  you  dare  return.  The 
Queen  can  never  come  to  her  throne  again." 

"  I  seek  no  throne  !  "  wailed  Guenever.  "  I  ask  for  no 
crown !  All  I  want  is  to  go  back  and  to  be  clean.  I  '11 
crawl  on  my  knees  to  the  palace,  if  I  may  be  clean." 

But  again  said  sneeringly  to  her  that  voice,  which  was 
either  of  Launcelot  or  of  the  wind :  — 

"  Too  late  !  too  late  !  too  late  !  You  can  never  be  clean  ! 
You  can  never  be  clean !  " 

"  Launcelot,"  said  Guenever,  rallying  sharply  and  mak 
ing,  as  it  seemed,  a  mighty  effort  to  collect  control  over  the 
emotion  which  was  mastering  her,  "  Launcelot,  there  is 
some  mistake  about  this.  I  never  meant  to  do  wrong.  I 
never  said  I  would  leave  the  King.  There  is  some  mistake. 


THE   TRUE   STORY   OF   GUENEVEK.  77 

Perhaps  I  have  been  dreaming  or  have  been  ill.  Let  me 
go  home  at  once  to  the  King !  " 

"  There  is  no  mistake,"  said  once  more  the  voice,  which 
seemed  neither  of  Launcelot  nor  of  the  wind,  but  yet  akin 
to  both  ;  "  and  you  are  not  dreaming  and  you  can  never  re 
turn  to  the  King.  The  thing  that  is  done  is  done.  Sorrow 
and  longing  are  dead  to  help  you.  Agony  and  repentance 
are  feeble  friends.  Neither  man  nor  Nature  can  wash  away 
a  stain." 

"  God  is  more  merciful !  "  cried  Guenever,  in  the  tense, 
.shrill  voice  of  agony,  stung  beyond  endurance.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  nature  could  bear  no  more.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  had  never  before  this  moment  received  so  much  as 
an  intellectual  perception  of  the  guiltiness  of  guilt.  Now 
mind  and  heart,  sotil  and  body  throbbed  with  the  throes 
of  it.  She  quivered,  she  struggled,  she  rebelled  with  the  ac 
cumulated  fervors  and  horrors  of  years  of  innocence.  But 
it  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  soil  of  sin  eat  into  her  like  caus 
tic,  before  whose  effects  the  most  compassionate  or  skillful 
surgeon  is  powerless.  She  writhed  with  her  recoil  from  it. 
She  shrank  from  it  with  terror  proportioned  to  her  sense  of 
helplessness  and  stain. 

"  They  who  are  only  afflicted  know  nothing  of  misery  !  " 
moaned  Guenever.  "  There  is  no  misery  but  guilt !  " 

She  flung  herself  down  in  the  storm  upon  the  snow. 

"  God  loves  !  "  cried  Guenever.  "  Christ  died  !  I  will  be 
clean  !  " 

It  seemed  then  suddenly  to  the  kneeling  woman,  that  He 
whose  body  and  blood  were  broke'n  for  tempted  souls  ap 
peared  to  seek  her  out  across  the  desolated  moor.  The  Man 
whose  stainless  lips  were  first  to  touch  the  cup  of  the  Holy 
Grael,  which  all  poor  souls  should  after  Him  go  seeking  up 
and  down  upon  the  earth,  stood  in  the  pure  white  snow, 
and,  smiling,  spoke  to  her. 

"  Though  your  sins"  he  said,  "  are  scarlet,  they  shall  be 
white." 


78  THE   TRUE   STORY   OF   GUENEVER. 

He  pointed,  as  he  spoke,  across  the  distance ;  past  the 
safe,  sweet  homes  of  men  and  women,  toward  the  palace 
gates.  It  seemed  to  Guenever  that  he  spoke  again  and 
said :  — 

"  Return ! " 

"  Through  those  black  footsteps  ?  "  sobbed  the  Queen. 

But  when  she  looked  again,  behold !  each  black  and  bit 
ter  trace  was  gone.  Smooth  across  them  all,  fair,  pure, 
still,  reposed  the  stainless  snow.  She  could  not  find  them, 
though  she  would.  They  were  blotted  out  by  Nature,  as 
they  were  forgiven  of  God.  Alas  !  alas  !  if  man  were  but 
half  as  compassionate  or  kind.  If  Arthur  — 

She  groveled  on  the  ground  where  the  sacred  Feet  had 
stood,  which  now  were  vanished  from  her.  Wretched 
woman  that  she  was  !  Who  should  deliver  her  from  this 
bondage  to  her  life's  great  holy  love?  If  Arthur  would 
but  open  the  door  for  her  in  the  fair  distance,  where  the 
palace  windows  shone ;  if  he  would  take  a  single  step  to 
ward  her  where  she  kneeled  within  the  wilderness ;  if  he 
would  but  loiter  toward  her  where  that  Other  had  run 
swiftly,  and  speak  one  word  of  quiet  to  her  where  He  had 
sung  her  songs  of  joy !  But  the  palace  door  was  shut. 
The  King  took  no  step  toward  the  wilderness.  The  King 
was  mute  as  death  and  cold  as  his  own  white  soul.  On 
Arthur's  throne  was  never  more  a  place  for  Guenever. 

Guenever,  in  the  desert,  stretched  her  arms  out  blindly 
across  the  blotted  footprints  to  the  palace  lights. 

Oh  !  Arthur.     Oh !  Arthur,  Arthur,  Arthur 

"  Why,  Pussy  !  "  said  Arthur.     "  What 's  the  matter  ?  " 

However  unqueenly,  Pussy  was  one  of  the  royal  pet 
names. 

"  My  little  woman !  Guenever !  My  darling  !  Why  do 
you  call  me  so  ?  " 

Why  did  she  call  him  indeed  ?     Why  call  for  anything  ': 


THE   TRUE   STORY   OF  GUENEVER.  79 

Why  ask  or  need  or  long  ?  In  his  great  arms  he  held  her. 
To  his  true  breast  he  folded  her.  Safe  in  his  love  he  shel 
tered  her.  From  heaven  the  stars  of  his  eyes  looked 
down  on  her.  As  those  may  look  who  wake  in  heaven, 
whose  anguished  soul  had  thought  to  wake  in  hell,  looked 
Guenever.  She  was  his  honored  wife.  There  was  no 
Launcelot,  no  wilderness.  The  soul  which  the  King  had 
crowned  with  his  royal  love  was  clean,  was  clean,  was 
clean  ! 

She  hid  her  scarlet  face  upon  his  honest  heart  and  seemed 
to  mutter  something  about  "  dreams."  It  was  all  that  she 
could  say.  There  are  dreams  that  are  epochs  in  life. 

"  But  it  was  n't  a  dream,  you  see,"  said  Arthur.  "  We  've 
had  a  scare  over  you,  Guenever.  You  took  the  laudanum, 
after  all." 

"  Launcelot's  laudanum  !  Indeed,  no  !  I  took  the  drops, 
as  I  told  you,  Arthur." 

"  The  bottles  stood  together  on  the  shelf,  and  you  made 
the  blunder,"  said  Arthur,  anxiously.  "  We  think  you 
must  have  taken  a  tremendous  dose.  I  've  sent  Launcelot 
for  the  Doctor.  And  Nabby  Joiies,  she  was  in  to  borrow 
eggs,  and  she  said  a  little  camphire  would  be  good  for  you. 
She  just  went  home  to  get  it.  But  I  've  been  frightened 
about  you,  Guenever,"  said  Arthur.  Arthur  spoke  in  his 
own  grave  and  repressed  manner.  But  he  was  very  pale. 
His  lips,  as  the  Queen  crept,  sobbing,  up  to  touch  them, 
trembled. 

"  Well,  well,"  he  said,  "  we  won't  talk  about  it  now." 
Guenever  did  not  want  to  talk.  She  wished  Nabby  Jones 
would  stay  away,  with  her  camphire.  She  wished  Launce 
lot  would  never  come.  Upon  her  husband's  heart  she 
lay.  Within  her  husband's  eyes  the  safe,  home  lire-light 
shone.  Across  the  old  chintz  chair  the  birds  of  paradise 
were  fluttering  like  birds  gone  wild  with  joy. 


80  THE   TRUE   STORY   OF   GUENEVER. 

Without,  the  wind  had  lulled,  the  storm  had  ceased,  and 
through  the  crevices  in  the  windows  had  sifted  tiny  drifts 
of  cool,  clean  snow. 

And  this,  know  all  men  henceforth  by  these  presents,  is 
the  true  story  of  Guenever  the  Queen. 


DOHERTY. 


IF  you  want  to  see  the  inside  of  a  station,  you  'd  ought  to 
have  been  here  last  night.  It  is  n't  often,  ma'am,  there  is  a 
night  that  would  be  suitable  for  you.  I  don't  think  there 's 
been  half  a  dozen  this  winter  that  I  'd  want  you  round  if 
you  was  my  daughter  or  my  sister  —  begging  your  pardon, 
ma'am,  as  the  best  way  I  can  put  it  to  you  to  express  my 
meaning  and  the  feeling  that  a  man  has  about  such  things. 

Ladies  drop  in  of  an  errand  now  and  then  —  you  ain't 
the  first.  Curious  errands,  too.  One,  she  wanted  to  circu 
late  a  total  abstinence  pledge ;  and  another,  she  offered  to 
pay  the  salary  of  a  chaplain.  She  brought  a  specimen  with 
her.  Most  I  remember  of  him  is  what  a  little  chap  he  was. 
Then  I  remember  three  coming  in  a  squad  to  teach  the 
women  how  to  darn  stockings.  And  one  —  but  she  was 
young  —  she  brought  a  package  of  tracts,  on  pink  paper. 
Then  we  've  had  'em  bring  sandwiches,  and  hymn-books, 
and  laylocks,  and  other  singular  things. 

Most  of  'em  that  drop  in  have  that  way  about  'em  as 
though  the  officers  were  a-locking  these  folks  up  here  for 
their  own  personal  gratification.  Can't  seem  to  get  it  into 
their  heads  !  I  always  like  to  be  polite  to  ladies,  too,  my 
self.  Then,  another  thing.  They  're  bent  on  it,  these 
creeturs  ain't  past  making  over.  Want  to  give  'em  old 
clothes  and  get  'em  work ;  set  'em  up  in  little  shops,  and 
that.  Shops  !  There  is  n't  a  man  here  once  a  month  that 
would  set  under  a  roof,  if  you  'd  give  him  a  salary  for  it. 


82  DOHERTY. 

Why,  once  we  used  to  give  'em  soup.  That  was  last 
winter.  It  did  n't  work.  We  don't  do  it  now.  But  the 
city  had  a  soup-day  here  one  while,  and  a  fish  firm  down 
on  Atlantic  Wharf  said  we  might  have  their  heads.  So  we 
told  the  men,  if  they  'd  go  down  and  get  the  heads  it  would 
make  their  soup  so  much  the  richer.  Don't  you  see  ?  Now 
we  could  n't  get  a  man-jack  of  'em  to  stir.  Not  one. 
They  'd  rather  go  without  than  take  the  trouble.  They  're 
all  so.  All  of  a  piece.  And  the  women  —  well,  the  wo 
men  — 

Upon  my  word,  I  wish  you  had  been  here  last  night.  I  've 
been  Lieutenant  in  this  station  for  twelve  years,  and  I  don't 
think  I  ever  felt  as  I  did  last  night.  It 's  puckery  kind  of 
work  this  —  like  taking  alum  on  your  tongue.  After  a  year 
or  so  a  man  feels  himself  wizzling  and  toughening  up  in  his 
feelings.  Can't  afford  to  have  feelings  down  here,  more  'n 
you  can  afford  to  stand  round  a  burning  house  in  cotton 
clothes.  It  only  scorches  you  and  don't  make  any  odds  to 
the  house. 

Ever  see  our  books  ?  No  ?  Well  just  you  look  here,  if 
you  please.  Just  count  those  pages.  Will  you  ?  From  there 
to  there.  We  took  in  all  those  in  December.  In  the  month 
of  December,  1876,  we  had  in  this  one  station  two  thousand 
two  hundred  and  fifty-two  men  and  women.  Of  course, 
there 's  the  usual  share  of  arrests.  There  's  Mahoney,  and 
Jones,  and  Sullivan,  and  Pete  Cartwright,  and  Julia  Hen 
derson  right  under  my  finger,  all  arrests.  All  drunk.  But 
most  of  'em  are  vagrancies  in  the  winter  time.  You  see  it 
was  pretty  cold  last  December,  especially  nights.  And 
then  we  're  careful  about  our  officers.  Don't  allow  kicking, 
and  no  more  swearing  at  'em  than  circumstances  require. 
These  creeturs  get  such  things  round  among  themselves. 
They  have  a  fancy  for  this  station,  maybe.  I  don't  know 
how  that  is.  We  mean  to  be  humane  on  this  corps.  That 's 
our  theory.  Some  of  our  officers  have  a  very  gentlemanly 


DOHERTY.  83 

way.  Not  that  we  think  it  makes  much  difference.  I  tell 
you,  madam  (you  may  better  understand  it  at  the  outset),  I 
don't  know  what  your  intentions  are,  of  course  —  but  ladies 
come  with  so  many  charitable  and  curious  designs  which 
it  seems  a  pity  to  disappoint ;  —  but  I  tell  you  the  folks 
that  get  into  these  places  are  a  hopeless  lot.  They  're  folks 
without  a  chance.  Most  of  us  have  a  chance,  I  reckon,  in 
this  world,  some  time  or  nuther  ;  even  them  poor  devils.  But 
by  the  time  they  get  here  their  chance  is  as  dead  as  John 
Brown's  body.  I  don't  say  there's  never  an  exception. 
Now,  there  was  that  creetur  last  night.  Maybe  if  some 
body  'd  taken  her  in  hand  several  years  ago  —  if  a  lady  with 
the  way  you  seem  to  have  —  (I  hope  you  '11  excuse  me, 
ma'am,  but  there  is  a  difference  in  a  lady's  way,  such  as  I 
think  you  'd  have  to  be  a  man  and  do  a  pretty  rough  man's 
work,  like  mine,  for  instance,  to  understand  so  clearly  as 
you  might).  I  wished  last  night,  I  will  confess,  that  there  'd 
been  a  lady  here.  It  did  occur  to  me  to  go  home  for  my 
wife.  But  I  never  bring  my  wife  into  the  station-house. 

Here  's  the  entry  —  one  of  the  last  ones  I  mean.     See  ! 

"  D  :  —  Doherty,  Ellen.  February  20th,  1877.  Va 
grancy"  When  I  get  time,  I  'm  going  to  count  up  how 
often  that  woman's  name  has  been  on  these  books.  But  it 
would  take  a  good  deal  of  time.  It 's  some  years. 

I  remember  very  well  the  first  time  she  came.  Don't 
know  how  I  happen  to.  There  's  such  a  lot  of  young  girls. 
And  pretty  ones,  too.  This  one  was  more  than  commonly 
good-looking  —  an  Irish  girl.  She  had  a  dark  style  and 
was  paler  than  most  of  'em.  I  think  it  must  have  been  five 
years  ago.  It  was  the  first  time  she  'd  ever  been  arrested. 
She  took  on  dreadfully  about  it.  She  hadn't  begun  to 
drink  then.  And  what  she  was  taken  up  for  had  never 
happened  before.  It  was  the  first  time,  she  said.  Some- 
ways,  I  remember,  I  believed  her.  Seemed  as  if  she  'd 
break  her  heart.  Had  n't  any  folks,  she  said.  Her  'n  were 


84  DOHERTY. 

dead.  She  cooped  up  in  a  little  heap  in  the  corner,  on  the 
floor,  that  night,  and  sat  crying  all  the  night.  It  was  n't  till 
nigh  morning  that  the  other  women  could  get  a  word  out  of 
her.  If  I  remember  straight,  we  had  an  uncommonly  rough 
lot  of  women-folks  on  that  night.  I  would  n't  have  put  her 
in  among  'em  :  but  there  's  no  other  way.  I  never  get  quite 
used  to  that  —  shutting  up  a  young  thing  with  an  old  one. 

Well,  so  she  was  sent  to  the  House  for  thirty  days  ;  and 
by  and  by  she  was  back  again.  She  came  of  her  own  ac 
cord  that  time.  Said  she  couldn't  get  anything  to  do. 
Seems  to  me  she  said  she  wanted  honest  work.  They  do 
say  it  once  in  a  while.  And  it  was  a  pretty  cold  night.  She 
came  for  a  place  to  sleep. 

So  after  that  we  got  pretty  well  used  to  her  ;  but  mostly 
after  she  begun  to  drink,  and  alter,  like  the  rest.  It  don't 
take  long.  Their  own  mothers  would  n't  know  'em  mostly 
in  three  years  or  so  ;  less,  maybe,  as  it  happens. 

Well,  yes.  Our  rule  is  :  come  a  fortnight  and  you  go. 
When  one  comes  steady  for  two  weeks  every  night,  then  it 
is  a  case  of  vagrancy  and  we  can  send  'em  to  the  alms- 
house.  But  Doherty,  she  was  pretty  careful.  She  grew 
smart  as  she  grew  worse.  If  she  got  taken  up,  it  was  n't 
for  a  long  pull.  Never  knew  her  in  the  House  at  the 
longest  more  than  three  months  at  a  time.  And  when  she 
come  to  lodge,  she  steered  pretty  clear  of  the  law  —  com 
ing  for  a  few  nights,  you  see,  and  then  off  again  on  her 
own  ways.  They  're  more  afraid  of  the  almshouse  then  they 
are  of  hell,  these  folks. 

So  she  got  to  be  a  pretty  old  customer  —  always  come 
to  this  station.  I  don't  know  but  that  was  my  fault.  Once 
I  give  her  a  pair  of  my  wife's  shoes.  It  was  one  Janu 
ary  morning,  twelve  below  zero.  She  had  n't  any  stock 
ings,  only  a  pair  of  old  rubbers,  and  her  bare  feet  came 
through  onto  the  pavement,  and  it  was  pretty  icy.  I  sup 
pose  I  might  have  lost  my  place  for  it.  Eh  !  Cap'n  ?  But 
I  don't  think  Doherty  ever  told  of  me. 


DOHERTY.  85 

So  you  see,  ma'am,  we  've  all  got  kind  of  dependent  on 
her.  Should  have  missed  the  creetur,  I  dare  say,  if  she 
had  n't  come.  You  get  so  used  to  the  same  thing,  you  know, 
much  as  you  do  to  your  temper  or  your  whiskers.  She  'd 
come  in,  and  I  'd  say  :  "  Well,  Doherty,  back  again  ?  " 
And  generally  I  went  down  myself  to  see  her  in  the  cell. 
Sometimes  I  do,  with  the  old  hands.  She  grew  to  be  a 
pretty  tough  case,  Doherty  did.  And  yet  there  was  always 
something  I  liked  about  Doherty. 

You  see  she  used  to  sing.  Sometimes  they  do.  And 
once  or  twice  I  've  had  a  chap  here  who  could  draw  por 
traits  of  the  rest.  Scrawl  the  walls  all  over,  if  he  was  n't 
watched.  One  of  the  worst  cases  we  ever  had  on  these 
books,  his  name  was  Gaffrey  —  Peter  Gaffrey.  Killed  an 
officer,  finally,  with  a  horse-shoe.  He  used  to  talk  Latin 
when  he  was  drunk,  and  some  other  language.  I  thought 
it  was  Dutch :  but  the  chief  heard  him,  and  said  he  guessed 
it  was  Greek.  The  fellow  used  to  get  the  rest  all  ranged 
round  like  an  audience,  and  then  go  at  it.  But  generally 
they  talk  religion.  It 's  more  popular. 

This  Doherty  that  I  speak  of,  she  had  a  beautiful  voice. 
I  'm  something  of  a  judge  of  music.  My  wife  sings  in  a 
choir  in  a  Baptist  church.  There  was  a  lady  happened  here 
once  —  wanted  to  get  some  scholars  for  her  Bible-class,  she 
said ;  and  she  heard  Doherty  sing.  It  was  on  one  of  her 
sprees.  I  would  n't  have  had  a  lady  heard  Doherty  sing 
that  night,  if  I  'd  been  in  time  to  stop  it.  None  of  the  men 
are  often  quite  like  that.  This  lady,  she  grew  so  faint  we 
had  to  carry  her  away.  She  did  n't  come  again.  It  was 
early  —  six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  too  —  and  she  'd  come 
all  the  way  from  the  West  End  to  see  the  women  before 
they  were  let  out.  We  let  them  go  at  six  o'clock.  They 
don't  get  in  very  thick  till  toward  midnight.  By  one  o'clock 
we  're  pretty  full. 

Time  and  again  I  Ve  set  up  here  looking  over  the  books 


50  DOHERTY. 

at  dead  of  night,  alone  along  with  an  officer  or  so,  and  heard 
the  call  go  up  from  a  man  somewhere  down  below  :  — 

"  Doherty  !  Sing  us  to  sleep,  Doherty !  Sing  us  to 
sleep ! " 

And  then  Doherty  from  the  women's  cell  would  hear 
them,  through  the  wall,  and  she  'd  begin.  And  the  fight 
ing  and  the  swearing  and  all  the  horrid  noise  would  quiet 
down  ;  and,  true  enough,  I  think  they  slept.  I  had  a  New 
foundland  dog  that  went  to  sleep  when  my  wife  played  the 
cabinet  organ.  Sometimes  that  woman  would  sing  enough 
to  make  your  flesh  creep.  She  'd  lost  all  her  looks  by  that 
time.  But  she  never  sang  so  when  she  was  sober.  And 
sometimes  she  'd  strike  up  a  pretty  thing,  as  clean  and  sweet 
as  the  hush-a-by  my  own  baby  hears,  ma'am,  from  my  own 
wife's  lips.  Sometimes  she  sang  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  or 
"  Home,  Sweet  Home  ; "  and  once  that  woman  picked  up  a 
song  called  the  "Three  Fishers."  Maybe  you  know  it. 
You  could  hear  her  all  over  this  great  building  :  — 

"  For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 
And  women  must  weep." 

"  Don't  you  ever  sing  any  hymns,  Doherty  ?  "  I  says  to 
her  one  night  —  more  to  see  what  she  would  say,  you  know. 
But  she  looked  at  me  and  made  no  answer,  and  passed  on. 
Doherty  never  quite  lost  her  ways,  like  other  women,  when 
she  was  herself.  Sometimes  she  was  quite  manageable  and 
gentle  in  her  ways.  That  night  she  did  n't  sing  at  all. 
The  men  kept  it  up,  off  and  on,  all  night :  "  Is  Doherty  in 
to-night  ?  "  "  Has  n't  Doherty  come  ?  "  "  Sing  us  to  sleep, 
Doherty  !  Sing  us  to  sleep  !  " 

But  she  would  n't  open  her  lips ;  and  when  morning 
came  —  it  was  a  snowy  morning  —  and  I  let  her  out,  she 
tugged  a  little,  this  way,  on  my  sleeve,  as  she  went  out,  and 
said :  "  Good-by,  Lieutenant,"  like  a  lady.  She  did  n't 
show  herself  again  for  a  long  while  after  that. 

This  winter  she  's  come  pretty  often.     In  December  she 


DOHERTY.  87 

come  nigh  her  fortnight's  term ;  but  she  cleared  out  just  in 
time.  Then  again  this  month.  It 's  been  a  pretty  cold  win 
ter,  and  the  woman  seemed  sickly.  I  felt  sorry  for  her. 
She  'd  grown  unpleasant  looking,  and  she  coughed.  I  don't 
think  she  had  any  place  of  her  own  this  season,  anywhere. 
We  could  n't  find  out.  The  Cap'n  and  I  both  felt  a  kind 
of  interest,  you  see,  she  'd  been  on  our  books  so  long.  It 
was  only  natural.  But  I  do  assure  you,  ma'am,  there  is 
nothing  to  be  done  for  such  a  case.  Nothing  whatever.  I 
would  n't  look  like  that,  if  I  was  you.  You  can't  help  it. 
Him  that  permits  'em,  He  strikes  'em  off  our  books,  now 
and  then,  into  his,  madam  ;  and  best  for  Him  and  them  and 
us,  I  take  it,  when  it  happens. 

Now,  last  night,  the  23d  of  February,  that  woman,  she  'd 
just  made  out  her  fourteenth  night  consecutive ;  and  I  had 
it  planned  to  send  her  to  Tewksbury  to-day.  She  '(T  be 
warm  in  the  poor-house,  at  least,  and  sure  of  her  rations. 
Cap'n  and  I  both  felt  glad  of  it  when  we  saw  her  stagger 
in.  He  said  :  "  We  've  got  her  this  time."  And  I  said : 
"  Here  again,  Doherty  ?  " 

I  went  up  to  speak  to  her,  for  I  felt  a  little  sorry,  too, 
knowing  it  was  the  last  time.  For  you  could  n't  understand 
how  familiar  their  faces  grow,  nor  the  kind  of  feeling  that 
an  officer  gets  about  them,  now  and  then. 

There  is  the  entry  just  as  I  put  it  down,  after  so  many 
times. 

"No.  31  (she  came  in  rather  early) — No.  31.  D:  — 
Doherty,  Ellen.  Vagrancy.  Sick."  For  we  saw  at  once 
that  she  was  pretty  sick.  She  'd  been  beating  about  in  the 
storm.  The  snow  was  all  over  her.  I  noticed  she  had  on 
a  clean  calico  dress.  She  stood  just  wrhere  you  're  stand 
ing,  ma'am,  while  I  made  the  entry.  It  took  the  snow 
some  time  to  melt,  for  it  had  sleeted  some.  She  looked 
almost  as  if  she  was  in  a  white  dress,  she  was  so  covered. 
She  had  her  hair  done  up  neat,  too. 


88  DOHERTY. 

I  thought  I  'd  go  and  see  her  in  the  cell  myself.  So  I 
went  down.  She  walked  very  slow  and  seemed  weak. 
"  Tired,  Doherty  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Lieutenant,"  said  she,  "  folks  used  to  call  me  Nell. 
Nobody  called  me  Doherty  till  I  begun  to  come  to  the  po 
lice-station.  I  don't  think  anybody  called  me  that  till  I  'd 
been  into  the  House,"  says  she. 

Then  1  said,  for  I  thought  I'd  pacify  her,  if  I  could: 
"  Are  you  sick  to-night,  Nell  ?  " 

"Oh,  my  God!"  says  she — just  like  that.  Then  she 
threw  up  her  arms  over  her  head,  and  began  to  sob  and  take 
on.  But  she  did  n't  swear.  She  felt  too  sick,  I  take  it.  So 
we  put  her  in  with  the  rest,  and  she  got  into  the  corner  and 
sat  crying. 

It  was  not  till  toward  midnight  that  she  begun.  They 
did  n't  get  well  in  and  quieted  before  that.  But  every  now 
and  then  the  men  would  call :  "  Sing  us  to  sleep,  Doherty ! 
Where  is  Doherty  ?  Doherty !  Sing  us  to  sleep  !  " 

The  storm  set  in  hard  toward  midnight.  It  beats  heavily 
here  upon  the  office  windows,  as  you  see,  ma'am ;  and  we 
get  a  pretty  clean  sweep  of  the  wind,  on  account  of  the  street 
running  to  the  wharves.  I  sent  down  once  to  ask  how  Do 
herty  seemed :  but  the  officer  reported  that  she  was  quiet, 
and  he  wished  the  rest  were.  They  'd  all  set  in,  men  and 
women,  he  said,  in  concert,  a-crying  out :  "  Sing  us  to  sleep, 
Doherty  !  " 

Pretty  soon  she  began.  I  could  hear  her  plain  above  the 
roaring  of  the  storm.  She  began  —  Doherty  began  —  that 
—  that  poor  —  miserable  —  creetur  —  she  that  had  once 
been  a  woman  like  other  womanfolks  —  excuse  me,  ma'am  ; 
but  she  's  been  on  our  books  a  good  many  years.  And  I  've 
heard  her  sing  such  things  !  I  never  looked  to  be  taken  by 
surprise,  as  Doherty  took  me.  You  're  not  surprised  very 
easy,  in  such  a  place  as  this,  at  anything  your  fellow-sinners 
do. 


DOHEKTY.  89 

But  about  midnight,  when  the  storm  was  at  its  thick  and 
the  cells  were  growing  still,  Doherty,  she  sat  up  and  began 
to  sing  a  hymn.  She  sang :  — 

"  Shall  we  gather  at  the  river?  " 

My  boy  sings  that  at  Sunday-school,  and  my  wife,  she 
strikes  it  up  the  iirst  thing  on  the  cabinet  organ  every  Sun 
day  night.  Doherty  sang  it  all  through :  — 

"  At  the  margin  of  the  river, 

Washing  up  its  silver  spray, 

We  shall  walk  and  worship  ever, 

All  the  happy,  golden  day." 

Those  are  the  words.  I  thought  perhaps  you  would  n't 
know  them.  Folks  sing  them  a  great  deal  in  the  Baptist 
church. 

Before  you  could  have  cocked  a  pistol  it  was  as  quiet  as 
the  grave  all  through  this  place.  The  officers  looked  at  one 
another.  All  the  men  waked  up.  The  women,  they  got 
together  in  a  heap  about  her.  The  Cap'n  said  to  me : 
Doherty  's  singing  hymn-tunes  I  "  I  said  I  thought  we  'd  go 
down  and  see  ;  and  down  we  went. 

When  we  looked  in  at  the  grating,  I  wish,  ma'am,  you 
could  have  seen  those  men  —  ragged,  rough,  red,  drunk. 
Some  of  'em  taken  in  awful  crimes.  No,  I  don't  wish  you 
had  seen  them.  But  there  they  set,  as  silent  as  a  row  of 
angels  on  the  judgment  day,  a-listening  to  hear  that  woman 
sing.  One  and  another,  they  said :  "  Hush  !  Hush  !  " 
And  one  fellow  said  :  "  I  used  to  sing  that  song  myself." 
He  was  up  for  assault  and  battery.  Badly  beaten,  too, 
himself,  about  the  face.  He  crept  along  the  wall,  I  noticed, 
on  his  knees,  to  get  where  he  could  hear  her  better.  When 
she  stopped,  he  hollered  out :  — 

"  Give  us  some  more,  Doherty  !  " 

And  the  rest  said  :  — 

"  Doherty,  give  us  another  psalm-tune  ! " 

But  one  of  the  women  said :  — 


90  DOHERTY. 

"  Come,  Nell !     Sing  us  to  sleep  with  the  hymns." 

So  then  she  began  again ;  and  she  gave  it  to  'em,  one 
upon  another,  fast  and  clear.  Heaven  knows  where  the 
creetur  learned  'em.  At  some  Protestant  Sunday-school, 
maybe,  where  she  'd  wandered  in  at  holidays.  They  go  a 
good  deal,  on  account  of  the  Christmas  presents. 

We  all  got  round  her  there  —  the  men  inside  and  the  offi 
cers  without  —  and  listened  for  awhile.  I  don't  think  I 
ever  heard  her  sing  so  in  all  my  life.  Doherty  had  a  fine 
voice,  and  no  mistake.  If  she  'd  been  respectably  born, 
she  'd  have  been  a  great  singer,  that  woman,  I  take  it ;  and 
folks  would  have  been  running  to  the  opera  and  to  concert 
halls  to  hear  her. 

So  there  she  sat  and  sung.  She  set  up  in  one  corner, 
with  her  chin  upon  her  hands  and  noticed  nobody ;  but 
stared  straight  on  before  her.  She  sang  "  Nearer,  my  God, 
to  Thee,"  and  "  Depths  of  Mercy  ; "  and  she  sung  "  I  heard 
the  voice  of  Jesus  say,"  and  "  Love  at  Home,"  and  all  those. 
And  all  the  men  and  all  the  women  listened.  And  I  saw 
the  Cap'n  draw  his  hand  acrost  his  eyes.  And  I  '11  own  it 
was  too  much  for  me.  I  will,  indeed. 

To  see  her  there,  letting  out  those  holy  words  so  trust 
fully,  as  you  might  say,  ma'am,  as  if  she  had  as  much  right 
to  'em  as  anybody  —  that  —  poor  —  wretched  —  Madam,  it 
was  enough  to  break  your  heart  to  hear  her.  I  could  n't 
help  remembering  how  pretty  she  had  been  and  young,  and 
how  she  took  on  the  first  night  she  ever  come  to  us. 

Pretty  soon  I  come  away  up-stairs  —  for  she  unmanned 
me  so,  before  the  men ;  and  I  set  down  here  and  had  it  out 
alone.  But  while  I  was  setting  here  I  heard  a  lull,  and  one 
of  the  Irish  boys  called  out :  — 

"  Give  us  the  one  more,  Doherty  !  Then  ye  can  take 
yer  sleep  yerself  !  "  — 

And  then,   ma'am,  she  began,  quite  low  and  in  a  faint 
voice,  and  very  sweet,  and  she  sung :  — 
"Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul." 


DOHERTY.  91 

She  sung  it  this  way,  singing  louder  now  and  then  :  — 

"  Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly, 

While  the  billows  near  me  roll 

Hide  me,  O  Thou  Saviour,  hide," 

and  in  the  midst  of  the  verse  she  stopped.  The  men  called 
to  her,  and  the  women  ;  and  the  Cap'n  said  :  — 

"  Give  us  the  rest,  Nell !  " 

I  was  rather  glad  he  called  her  Nell  just  then ;  for  when 
we  got  in,  wondering  what  it  all  meant,  and  hushing  up  the 
women,  ma'am,  as  best  we  could,  we  found  her  lying  turned 
a  little  on  her  side,  with  her  face  against  the  wall,  quite 
dead. 

It  does  n't  happen  so  often,  ma'am,  that  we  ever  get  quite 
toughened  to  it.  And  being  a  woman  makes  it  ar  little  dif 
ferent.  I  wish  you  'd  seen  her.  Upon  my  soul,  I  do.  I 
wish  some  woman  had  been  there  of  a  different  sort  from 
them  about  her.  We  don't  often  have  a  prettier  nor  a  more 
modest  and  more  gentle  creetur  than  Doherty  was  the  first 
night  we  ever  saw  her  here.  I  wish  you  could  have  heard 
her  sing  the  hymns. 


THE  VOYAGE  OF  THE  "AMERICA.3 


IT  seems  as  wild  as  Constaunce,  as  eerie  as  Undine,  as  far 
as  Morte  d' Arthur,  as  big  as  Robinson  Crusoe,  as  hard  as 
Jonah. 

I  sit  upon  the  jutting  lava  rocks  of  Eastern  Point,  and 
say  it  seems  impossible. 

Lazily  upon  the  rich  and  tortured  hues  which  the  beating 
water  and  the  bursting  fire  opened  for  my  pleasure  ages 
ago,  falls  the  liquid  August  sunlight,  as  only  Gloucester  sun 
light  falls,  I  think,  the  wide  world  over.  Through  it,  the 
harbor  widens,  gladdens,  to  the  sea.  The  tide  beats  at  my 
feet,  a  mighty  pulse,  slow,  even,  healthy,  and  serene.  Scant 
weeds  of  umber  shades  and  emerald,  with  now  and  then  a 
dash  of  carmine,  are  sucked  in  by  the  olive-green  barnacles, 
or  wash  idly  past  me  through  the  lava  gorge.  The  near 
waves  curve  and  break  in  quiet  colors ;  across  the  harbor's 
width  they  deepen  and  purple,  if  one  can  place  the  eyes,  be 
neath  the  blaze  of  the  climbing  sun,  upon  them.  A  shred 
or  two  of  foam,  curling  lightly  against  the  cliffs  of  the  west 
ern  shore,  whispers  that  far  across  the  broad  arm  of  the 
Point  the  sleeping  east  wind  has  reared  his  head  to  look 
the  harbor  over.  Beneath  the  bright  shade  of  many-hued 
sun-umbrellas  the  dories  of  the  pleasure-people  tilt  daintily. 
At  the  distance  nearly  of  two  miles  —  the  harbor's  width  — 
I  can  see  the  glitter  of  the  cunners  caught  sharply  from  the 
purple  water  :  as  well  as  the  lithe,  light  drawing  of  a  lady's 
hand  over  the  boat's  side  against  the  idle  tide.  All  along 


THE   VOYAGE   OF   THE    "  AMERICA."  93 

the  lee  shore  from  the  little  reef,  Black  Bess,  to  the  busy 
town,  the  buoys  of  the  mackerel  nets  bob  sleepily ;  in  and 
out  among  them,  with  the  look  of  men  who  have  toiled  all 
night  and  taken  nothing,  glide  the  mackerel  fishers,  peace 
ful  and  poor.  The  channel,  where  the  wind  has  freshened 
now,  is  full.  The  lumber-schooner  is  there  from  Machias, 
the  coal-bark  bound  for  Boston,  the  fishing-sloop  headed  to 
the  Banks.  The  water-boat  trips  up  and  down  on  a  supply 
tour.  A  revenue  cutter  steams  in  and  out  importantly. 
The  Government  lighter  struts  by.  A  flock  of  little  pleas 
ure  sails  fly  past  the  New  York  school-ship,  peering  up  at 
her  like  curious  canaries  at  a  solemn  watch-clog.  A  sombre 
old  pilot-boat,  indifferent  to  all  the  world,  puts  in  to  get 
her  dinner  after  her  morning's  work,  and  the  heavily- 
weighted  salt-sloops  tack  to  clear  the  Boston  steamer  turn 
ing  Norman's  Woe. 

Arid  Norman's  Woe,  the  fair,  the  cruel,  —  the  Woe  of 
song  and  history,  —  can  it  ever  have  been  a  terror  ?  Now 
it  is  a  trance.  Behind  it  the  blended  greens  of  the  rich  in 
habited  shore  close  up  softly  ;  upon  it  the  full  light  falls  ; 
the  jagged  teeth  of  the  bared  rock  round  smoothly  in  the 
pleasant  air  ;  the  colors  known  to  artists  as  orange  chrome 
and  yellow  ochre  and  burnt  Sienna  caress  each  other,  to 
make  the  reef  a  warm  and  gentle  thing. 

Beyond  it  stirs  the  busy  sea.  The  day  falls  so  fair  that 
half  the  commerce  of  the  Massachusetts  coast  seems  to  be 
alive  upon  its  happy  heart.  The  sails  swarm  like  silver 
bees.  The  black  hulls  start  sharply  from  the  water-line, 
and  look  round  and  full  like  embossed  designs  against  the 
delicate  sky.  It  is  one  of  the  silver  days,  dear  to  the  hearts 
of  dwellers  by  the  shore,  when  every  detail  in  the  distance 
is  magnified  and  sharp.  I  can  see  the  thin,  fine  line  of  de 
parting  mast-heads,  far,  far,  far,  till  they  dip  and  utterly 
melt.  Half-way  Rock  —  half-way  to  Boston  from  my  lava 
gorge  —  rises  clear-cut  and  vivid  to  the  unaided  eye,  as  if 


94  THE   VOYAGE   OF   THE   "AMERICA." 

brought  wthin  arm's-length  by  a  powerful  glass.  And 
there  the  curved  arm  of  the  Salem  shore  stretches  out,  and 
Marblehead  turns  her  fair  neck  toward  us  :  in  the  faint,  vio 
let  tinge  of  the  outlines  I  can  see  pale  specks  where  houses 
cluster  thickly. 

Beyond  them  all,  across  the  flutter  of  uncounted  sails, 
which  fly,  which  glide,  which  creep,  which  pass  and  repass, 
wind  and  interwind,  which  dare  me  to  number  them  and 
defy  me  to  escape  them,  —  dim  as  a  dream  and  fair  as  a 
fancy,  —  I  can  distinctly  see  the  long,  low,  gray  outline  of 
Cape  Cod. 

Cape  Cod  ?  I  will  take  the  "  Sandpiper  "  and  row  over 
there  after  dinner.  Nothing  were  easier. 

I  say  as  much  to  the  Ancient  Mariner  who  sits  below  me 
in  the  lava  gorge,  bracing  his  foot  against  the  death  of  half 
a  hundred  green  and  golden  snails,  engaged,  as  Mr.  Cole 
ridge,  you  remember,  tells  us,  in  the  honorable,  if  prosaic, 
occupation  of  cleaning  cod.  The  Ancient  Mariner  is  of  a 
literal  turn  of  mind,  and,  to  my  innocent,  metaphysical  at 
tempt  to  "  conceive  the  inconceivable,"  superciliously  and 
succinctly  makes  answer  :  — 

"  Think  so  !  " 

And  indeed,  after  some  moments  of  reflection,  the  bold 
idea  seems  so  to  work  upon  his  feelings  that  he  turns  slowly 
around,  as  far  as  he  ever  allows  himself  to  turn  around 
when  honoring  me  with  his  society,  for  he  considers  it  a 
point  of  gallantry  that  he  keep  his  busy  shoulder  broad 
across  the  range  of  vision  which  interposes  between  the 
cod  and  me;  and  for. that  knightly  instinct,  may  all  the 
cod  in  Gloucester  harbor  take  it  as  a  pleasure-trip  to  come 
into  his  net  and  be  cleaned !  He  turns  slowly,  half-way 
round,  and  articulates  distinctly :  — 

«  Think  so  !     Cape  Cod  !     The  <  Sandpeep ' !  " 

No  language  can  express  the  immense  atmospheric  press 
ure  of  scorn  to  the  square  inch  of  accent  contained  in  this 


THE   VOYAGE   OP   THE    "  AMERICA."  95 

irreverent  remark.  I  catch  my  breath  with  horror.  The 
"  Sandpiper  "  —  the  dignified,  the  delicate,  the  dear  ;  the 
"  Sandpiper  "  that  skims  the  glowing  bay,  now  to  the  meas 
ure  of  Celia  Thaxter's  poem,  now  to  the  beat  of  swift  and 
tiny  wings  above  my  head  —  now  to  the  throb  of  the  rower's 
own  unspoken  and  unspeakable  fancies  —  my  boat  —  the 
"  Sand-peep  "  / 

It  may  be  that  my  breathless  silence  penetrates  the  su 
perb  superiority  below  me  with  a  dim  sense  of  desire  to 
make  amends  for  an  uncomprehended  but  palpable  injury ; 
for,  after  a  certain  pause,  in  the  serene,  slow  voice  peculiar, 
I  believe,  to  an  old  salt  about  to  spin  an  intricate  sea-yarn, 
there  float  to  me  the  words :  — 

"  Did  ye  ever  hear  about  the  schooner  '  America '  ?  " 
In  an  instant  I  forgive  him.  He  might  have  called  it, 
as  the  reporter  did,  the  "  Sand-scraper  "  —  I  could  have 
forgiven  that,  yea,  unto  seventy  times  seven.  I  clamber 
into  the  softest  corner  of  the  lava  gorge  ;  I  court  the  ten- 
derest  embrace  of  my  Himalaya  shawl ;  I  fix  my  eyes  upon 
the  violet  horizon  and  the  silver  sea.  The  Ancient  Mari 
ner,  sitting  still,  impervious,  between  his  honorable  occupa 
tion  and  my  own,  gestureless,  unimpassioned,  half -hidden, 
tells  the  tale  with  the  serenity  and  insistence  of  an  old 
Greek  chorus ;  and  between  the  pauses  of  his  unvaried  voice 
the  rising  tide  beats  restlessly. 

"  Wai,  I  '11  tell  you  about  that  if  you  'd  like  to  hear. 
Times  I  've  sat  in  the  chimbly  corner  and  heerd  my  grand 
father  tell  it,  ain't  skerce.  You  see  my  grandfather  was  one 
of  'em.  We  used  to  consider  it  a  great  honor  in  our  days, 
folks  did,  to  be  one  of  that  there  crew.  True?  It's  true 
as  Bible.  And  I  'm  an  old-fashioned  man  that  believes  in 
Bible.  Mebbe  because  I  was  brought  up  to,  and  it 's  handy 
coming  by  your  religion  in  the  course  of  natur',  as  it  is  by 
your  eyebrows  or  your  way  of  walking.  Then,  mebbe  it 's 


96  THE   VOYAGE   OF   THE 

the  way  a  man 's  made  up.  Some  folks  take  to  religion, 
and  some  folks  take  to  shoes,  and  it  may  be  fishing,  or, 
perhaps,  it 's  rum.  My  grandfather  was  a  pious  man. 

"  It  was  nigh  a  hundred  years  ago  ;  in  Anne  Dominoes 
1779,  as  my  grandfather  used  to  say,  that  the  schooner 
'  America '  weighed  anchor  from  this  port  bound  for  the 
West  Indies  on  a  trading  voyage. 

"  There  was  five  in  the  crew,  and  my  grandfather  he  was 
one.  They  were  Gloucester  boys,  as  I  remember,  grow'd 
up  around  here.  And  Cap'n  Elwell,  everybody  knew 
him ;  he  was  postmaster.  They  sailed  the  last  of  July, 
1779. 

" '  We  sailed  the  last  of  July,'  says  my  grandfather, 
'  seventeen  hundred  and  seventy-nine,'  says  he,  and  if  I  've 
heerd  him  say  it  once  I  've  heerd  it  fifty  times.  I  was  a 
little  shaver.  I  used  to  sit  on  stormy  nights  and  hear  him 
talk.  The  only  thing  I  ever  had  against  my  grandfather  was 
the  time  he  took  to  steer  through  family  prayers.  I  whit 
tled  out  a  dory  rudder  once  before  he  got  through  praying. 
But  when  it  come  to  yarns,  you  could  n't  find  his  beat.  And 
that 's  what  perplexes  me.  Why,  if  a  man  can  tell  a  good 
yarn  to  folks,  can't  he  tell  a  good  one  to  the  Lord  ?  For 
that  a  prayer 's  no  more  nor  less  than  that,  to  my  mind  —  a 
mighty  yarn  —  so  big  you  believe  it  when  you  're  telling  it 
because  you  can't  help  yourself,  and  other  folks  believe  it 
when  they  listen  because  they  can't  help  theirselves.  Eh  ? 
Well,  I  don't  know  ;  that 's  the  way  it  seems  to  me. 

"  There  was  one  chap  among  the  boys  booked  for  that 
voyage  in  the  '  America  '  that  I  must  mention.  The  boys 
they  called  him  Bub.  He  was  a  youngish  fellow  —  the 
youngest  of  the  lot.  And  I  've  heerd  tell  he  was  palish  in 
his  make,  and  slight,  sort  o'  like  a  girl ;  and  how  he  had  a 
pretty  face,  and  that  his  hair  curled.  Light  hair,  grand 
father  said,  and  blue  eyes.  I  can  remember  once  his  sit 
ting  up  against  the  kitchen  boiler  and  saying  how  that  fel 


THE    VOYAGE    OF   THE    "  AMERICA."  97 

low's  eyes  remembered  him  of  a  little  sister  that  I  had 
about  that  time.  But  her  name  was  Dorothy,  and  she  died 
of  scarlet  fever. 

"  Now,  you  see,  this  young  chap  that  they  called  Bub, 
he  'd  just  got  married.  Barely  nineteen,  says  grandfather, 
was  that  boy,  and  married  to  a  little  girl  mebbe  a  year  the 
less.  And  the  cutting  thing  about  it  was  these  poor  young 
things  had  n't  been  married  not  more  than  six  weeks  when 
the  'America  '  set  sail. 

"  I  don't  know  if  folks  took  things  a  hundred  years  ago 
as  they  might  take  'em  now.  Suppose  so.  Don't  you  ? 
Seems  somehow  as  if  they  was  made  of  different  dough. 
Now,  I  've  seen  women,  and  women,  and  the  way  wives 
take  on,  you  know,  when  their  men  set  sail  from  Glouces 
ter  harbor.  Fishing  folks  are  used  to  that.  Them  that  go 
down  to  the  sea  in  ships  get  used  to  bitter  things.  It  ain't 
so  much  taking  your  life  in  your  hands,  as  other  matters 
that  are  wuth  more  than  life  to  you  to  think  on  and  re 
member  of.  If  you  Ve  married  a  good  woman  and  set  any 
thing  by  her,  and  she  set  anything  by  you,  a  man  takes  her 
eyes  along  with  him  as  they  looked  with  tears  in  'em ;  and 
her  hands  along,  as  they  felt  when  they  got  around  his  neck ; 
and  her  voice,  the  sound  it  had,  when  it  choked  in  trying  to 
say  good-by  that  morning ;  and  the  look  of  the  baby  in 
her  arms  as  she  stood  ag'in  the  door. 

"  Women-folks  are  plenty,  but  they  're  skerce  in  their 
ways.  One  don't  do  things  like  another.  You  '11  never 
find  two  fish  jump  on  the  hook  in  the  same  manner,  not  if 
you  fish  to  the  next  Centennial.  I've  seen  a  little  measly 
cunner  make  fuss  enough  as  it  hed  been  the  sea-sarpeut ;  and 
I  've  seen  a  two-pound  mackerel  slip  int'  the  dory  polite 
and  easy,  as  if  he  'd  only  come  to  dun  you  for  a  little  bill. 

"  Some  women  they  take  on  like  to  make  you  deef. 
Screech.  Have  highsterics.  Some  they  follow  him  to  the 
wharf  and  stand  sobbin',  sort  of  quiet.  There 's  others  that 
7 


98  THE   VOYAGE   OF   THE 

stay  to  home,  and  what  they  says  and  what  they  suffers  no 
man  knows  but  him  that  they  belong  to.  That 's  the  way 
my  wife  always  done.  Never  a  messmate  of  mine  saw  that 
woman  cry  Once  I  saw  a  woman  at  the  laundry  over 
there,  doing  clothes  among  a  lot  of  folks,  and  a  man  steps 
up  and  says  to  her  before  them  all  —  and  if  I  'd  been  nigh 
enough  seems  I  should  have  knocked  him  down  —  and  says 
he :  <  Your  husband 's  drowned,  and  your  son  Tom.'  Like 
that !  "Wai,  she  just  put  her  apron  over  her  head,  that 
woman  did,  threw  it  across  without  a  word,  and  she  dropped 
her  irons,  and  she  put  and  run.  She  run  right  through  us 
all,  and  up  the  streets,  and  straight  for  home.  And  in  she 
went  and  shut  the  door,  and  let  no  one  come  after. 

"  Nigh  as  I  can  make  out,  this  young  fellow's  wife  I  'm 
talkin'  of  was  some  like  that.  Folks  say  she  was  a  pretty 
creetur,  with  that  look  some  women  have  when  they  're  just 
married  :  as  happy  as  an  angel,  and  as  scarey  as  a  little 
bird  —  I  've  seen  'em  ;  shy  of  everybody  but  him  ;  and  think 
themselves  too  well  off  to  care  if  ever  they  speak  to  other 
folks  again.  I  like  to  see  a  woman  have  that  look.  It 
wears  off  quick  enough.  So  does  the  shine  on  a  fancy  bait ; 
but  all  the  same  you  want  your  bait  to  shine  ;  you  don't  go 
trading  for  a  dull  one,  if  only  of  respect  to  the  feelings  oi 
the  fish. 

"  Now,  of  all  the  p'ints  that  have  been  forgotten  in  that 
affair,  it's  never  been  disputed  to  my  knowledge  what  the 
name  was  of  that  poor  young  woman.  Cur'ous,  ain't  it  ? 
Her  name  was  Annie.  I  've  seen  men  sit  and  wrangle  over 
bigger  matters  in  the  story,  as  how  the  wind  was  on  a  cer 
tain  day,  or  who  it  was  that  picked  them  up,  and  so  on ; 
but  I  never  heerd  one  yet  deny  that  the  young  woman's 
name  was  Annie. 

"  You  see  they  was  mostly  older  and  settled  down  ;  used 
to  their  wives  by  that  time.  And  then  it  turned  out  so  with 
Bub.  The  chap  was  musical  too,  I  Ve  heerd  tell,  and  folks 


99 

had  it,  that  he  called  her  Annie  Laurie.  I  suppose  you  've 
heerd  a  song  called  i  Annie  Laurie '?  Eh?  Didn't  sing 
'  Annie  Laurie  '  those  days  as  they  sing  it  these'n  ?  I  don't 
know.  All  I  know  is  what  folks  said. 

"  It  was  a  blazing  hot  July,  I  've  heerd,  the  July  the 
j <  America '  set  sail.  Night  before  they  was  to  sail,  it  was 
'dead  still,  and  hot  like  to  weaken  you  to  rags.  My  grand 
father  he  was  out  a  little  late,  to  get  a  sou' -wester  that 
he  'd  ordered  in  a  little  old  shop  that  used  to  stand  over 
|  there  beyond  Davis's  Fish  Dinners  —  tore  down  long  ago. 
His  house,  you  see,  was  there  —  about  there,  acrost  Front 
Street :  and  them  two  young  things,  they  lived  in  a  little 
alley,  long  since  made  away  with,  and  he  had  to  pass  their 
house  in  going  home.  And  because  they  was  so  young, 
and  because  of  what  come  after,  I  suppose,  he  said,  says  he, 
i*  I  shall  never  forget  to  the  day  I  die,'  says  he,  '  the  sight 
I  saw  in  walking  by  poor  Bub's',  says  he. 

"  It  was  so  hot,  he  says,  that  the  curtain  was  rolled  up, 
and  they  'd  set  the  light  off  in  an  inner  room,  thinking, 
mebbe,  that  no  one  would  see.  Or  mebbe,  in  their  love 
and  misery,  they  didn't  think  at  all.  But  the  light  shone 
through  acrost,  and  there  they  sat,  he  says,  half  indistinct, 
,like  shadows,  in  one  another's  arms. 

"  He  thought  she  must  have  had  some  wrapping-gown 
;on,  he  said,  of  a  light  color  and  thin,  because  it  was  so  hot ; 
but  not  considering  it  quite  proper  to  reflect  upon,  and  half 
!  ashamed  to  have  looked  in,  although  not  meaning  to,  he 
:  could  n't  say.  But  the  poor  young  woman  she  sat  in  her 
husband's  lap,  and  Bub,  poor  fellow  !  was  brushing  of  her 
hair.  She  had  long  yellow  hair,  folks  say,  most  to  her  feet. 
So  there  sits  poor  Bub,  brushing  of  it  for  her,  and  just  as 
grandfather  went  by,  she  put  up  her  little  hand  —  the  way 
a  woman  has,  you  know  —  against  her  husband's  cheek. 

"  To  the  day  he  died,  my  grandfather  never  mentioned 
that  outside  the  family.  It  seemed  a  wickedness,  he  said. 


100  THE   VOYAGE   OF   THE   "AMERICA." 

He  jammed  his  hat  acrost  his  eyes,  and  hurried  home  to  his 
own  folks.  It  was  an  old  story  to  him  and  grandmother, 
he  said. 

" '  But,'  says  he,  *  I  felt  as  I  'd  have  taken  a  five  year 
voyage,'  says  he,  '  if  them  two  young  things,  just  six  weeks 
married,  could  have  been  let  alone  a  little  longer.  They 
was  living,'  says  my  grandfather  very  solemn,  '  what  never 
comes  but  once  to  no  one.  They  'd  ought  to  have  been  let 
be.  That  kind  of  thing  's  too  skerce  in  this  world  to  be 
easy  spoiled.  God  pity  us  ! '  says  grandfather. 

"  Wai,  so  the  next  morning  down  the  crew  come,  when 
the  tide  made,  to  the  old  wharf  —  rotted  away,  that  wharf 
did,  fifty  years  ago  —  where  the  '  America '  lay  at  anchor. 
And  the  young  man  that  they  called  Bub  was  among  'em  — 
pale  as  one  twelve  hours  dead,  folks  said  ;  and  about  as  still. 
But  he  spoke  no  word  to  nobody. 

"  The  boys  said  she  seemed  to  have  said  good-by  within 
the  door ;  and  when  she  'd  let  him  go,  repented  of  it  or 
found  it  more  than  she  could  bear.  And  how  she  follered 
after  him  a  step  or  two  —  but  he,  never  knowing,  did  n't 
turn.  And  when  she  saw  the  boys,  and  folks  about,  she 
stood  a  minute  looking  scared  and  undecided;  and  then 
they  say  she  turned  and  ran  —  and  never  spoke ;  arid  that 
he  never  knew,  for  no  one  had  the  heart  to  tell  him.  And 
as  she  ran,  she  flung  her  hands  above  her  head,  and  that 
long  hair  she  had  fell  down  and  floated  out,  I  've  heerd. 
But  she  never  spoke  nor  cried.  And  Bub  walked  on ;  and 
the  boys  they  looked  the  other  way. 

"  They  had  a  likely  voyage,  I  've  always  understood,  and 
made  their  port  in  safety,  although  in  war  times,  and  feel 
ing,  I  suppose,  a  little  nervous  all  the  while.  I  forget  the 
place.  They  took  in  a  cargo  of  cocoa  and  rum.  1779,  you 
know,  was  in  the  Revolutionary  War.  I  had  a  great-uncle 
that  was  killed  in  Stony  Point  that  year. 

"  Wai,  the  l  America '  she   sailed  for  home  on  the  25th 


THE   VOYAGE   OF   THE    "AMERICA."  101 

of  November.  Cap'n  Elwell,  he  calculated  to  be  home, 
some  folks  said,  by  New  Year's,  some  by  Christinas  ;  but 
that  seems  to  me  onreliable,  though  the  facts  come  nigh 
enough  to  it.  They  sailed  in  particular  good  spirits.  Sail 
ors  are  like  horses  headed  for  home.  Seems  as  if  they  'd 

!  take  the  A'mighty's  wind    and  weather  like  bits  between 

j  their  teeth,  to  get  there. 

"  In  particular,  I  Ve  heerd  tell  it  was  so  with  the  young 
chap  that  they  called  Bub.  On  the  out  voyage  he  'd  moped 

i  like  a  molting  chicken  ;  said  nothing  to  nobody ;  never  com- 

,  plained  nor  fretted ;  just  moped.  He  hung  round  grand 
father  a  good  deal,  who  was  civil  to  him,  I  guess,  being 
sorry  for  the  lad.  Once  he  drew  him  on  to  talk  about  her, 
of  a  quiet  evening,  wrhen  they  were  on  watch  together  ;  and 
he  told  him  how  he  'd  find,  when  he  got  back,  the  comfort 
that  she  'd  taken  in  counting  of  the  days,  and  how  women 
he  had  known  grew  quiet  after  a  while,  and  contented  like, 
and  how  the  first  voyage  was  the  worst1,  and  what  grand 
mother  said  to  him  when  he  come  back,  and  things  like 
that.  I  guess  he  chirked  the  creetur  up. 

"  From  the  hour  they  weighed  anchor  for  home,  folks 
say,  you  never  saw  another  like  him.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
'America '  was  n't  big  enough  to  hold  him.  He  said  noth 
ing  to  nobody,  even  then  —  only  he  began  to  sing.  They 
say  he  had  a  beautiful  voice.  Of  nights,  the  boys  set  out 
on  deck  to  hear  him. 

"  About  half  seas  home,  the  '  America  '  she  entered  on  a 
run  of  foul  weather.  There  was  fogs,  and  there  was. head- 
winds,  and  there  was  some  rain  and  sleet.  And  there  come 
a  spell,  turned  cold  as  a  woman  when  her  fancy  's  set  ag'in 
you  —  a  chilling,  crawlin',  creepin',  offish  sort  of  cold,  that 
of  all  things  is  most  on  pleasant  when  on  sea  or  land. 

"  Howsomever,  they  made  good  fight  against  it,  though 
discouraged,  till  they  sighted  Cape  Ann.  Then  come  up 
an  awful  storm. 


102  THE   VOYAGE   OF   THE    "AMERICA." 

"  There 's  a  hymn  I  've  heerd  my  boys  sing  to  Sunday- 
school.  They  sing  it  in  this  way :  — 

"  '  Safe,  safe  to  home  ! 
No  more  to  roam ; 
Safe,  safe  to  home !  ' 

"  I  tell  you,  now,  it  takes  a  sailor  to  sing  the  sense  into 
them  words.  Ther  's  no  other  callin'  that  I  know  of  where 
the  nigher  you  come  to  home  the  bigger  your  danger. 
Most  folks  when  they  're  going  anywhere  feel  safer  nigher 
that  they  come  to  it.  At  sea  it's  different.  The  very 
rocks  you  played  acrost  when  you  was  a  baby,  the  old  reefs 
and  beaches  and  cliffs  you  know  by  inches  and  love  like 
brothers,  —  they  '11  turn  on  you  and  gore  you  to  death  of 
a  dark  night,  as  if  they  'd  been  bounding  bulls  gone  mad. 
And  the  waves  you  've  learned  to  swim  in,  and  plashed 
about  and  paddled  in,  and  coaxed  your  father's  heavy  dory 
through  when  your  hands  wasn't  big  enough  to  hold  an 
oar,  —  those  waves  will  turn  ag'in  you,  as  if  you  'd  been 
their  deadly  foe,  and  toss  you  up  as  if  you  was  a  splinter, 
and  grind  you  to  pieces  on  the  cliff,  five  rods,  mebbe,  from 
your  own  front  door,  with  your  children's  shadows  on  the 
window-curtain  before  your  eyes. 

"  There  's  an  old  proverb  we  used  to  have  round  Glouces 
ter  :  '  A  sailor  's  never  got  home  till  he  's  had  his  dinner,' 
meaning,  I  take  it,  that  same  idea. 

"  Wai,  you  see,  when  the  '  America '  was  hove  just  off 
Cape  Ann,  then  come  up  this  storm  I  speak  of.  They  was 
within  a  few  hours'  sail  of  home.  They  'd  had  east  sou'- 
east  winds,  and  a  fine,  drivin'  snow-storm,  squally  and  ill- 
tempered.  That  was  about  the  first  of  January,  most  folks 
say.  My  grandfather  he  said  it  was  the  27th  of  December, 
two  days  after  Christmas,  by  his  reckoning.  That  was  olF 
over  the  P'int  —  in  that  direction.  Grandfather  was  trying 
to  tie  a  reefpoint,  with  his  fingers  nigh  frozen  to 't,  and  the 
bitter  wind  a-blinding  him.  All  at  once  there  conies  a 


THE   VOYAGE  OF   THE   "AMERICA."  108 

dead  shift.  The  wind  she  veered  to  the  nor'ard  at  one 
awful  bound,  like  a  great  leopard,  and  struck  him  like  to 
strike  him  down.  Through  the  noise  he  hears  Cap'n  El- 
well  shouting  out  his  orders  like  a  man  gone  mad  ;  but 
whether  it  was  that  they  did  n't  understand,  or  whether  be 
cause  so  many  of  the  crew  had  froze  their  fingers,  I  can't 
say.  Anyhow,  it  all  went  ag'in  them,  and  scoot  they  went 
under  full  canvas,  headed  out  to  sea  before  that  dead  north 
wind. 

"  Wai,  by  the  time  they  'd  furled  and  come  to  their  wits 
again,  and  strove  to  look  about  'em,  and  crawled  up  gaspin.' 
from  the  deck  where  the  wind  had  hammered  of  'em  down 
as  flat  as  dead,  they  made  a  horrible  discovery,  for  when 
the  blow  was  lightened  more  or  less,  the  '  America  '  she 
began  to  flop  hither  and  yon  in  that  manner  that  you 
would  n't  think  much  of  if  you  did  n't  understand  it ;  but 
if  you  was  a  seafaring  man  your  heart  would  stand  still  to 
see. 

"  '  What,  in  Death's  name ! '  cries  Cap'n  Elwell,  turning 
pale,  I  've  heerd,  for  the  first  time  upon  the  voyage,  '  has 
happened  to  the  rudder?' 

"  Then  up  steps  one  of  the  boys,  —  him  that  had  the 
helm  —  and  tells  him,  short,  like  this  :  — 

"  (  Sir  !  we  've  lost  our  rudder.    That 's  what 's  happened/ 

"  Wai,  there 's  disarsters  and  disarsters,  and  some  are  as 
much  wuss  than  others  as  the  small-pox  is  wuss  than  the 
chicken.  I  've  been  to  sea  a  good  part  of  my  life.  I  've 
been  wrecked  four  times.  I've  been  in  Death's  jaws  till 
I  could  feel  'em  crunch  upon  me  times  again,  and  I  give 
it  as  my  personal  opinion,  I  'd  ruther  lose  my  mainmast, 
or  I  'd  ruther  run  aground,  or  I  'd  be  stove  in  aft,  or 
I  'd  take  my  chances  most  anyhow,  before  I  'd  lose  my 
rudder. 

"  Wai,  the  'America '  she  lost  her'n,  and  there  they  was. 
It  was  the  fust  of  January,  1780.  Cold.  Cold  as  the  eter- 


104  THE   VOYAGE   OF   THE   "AMERICA." 

nal  grave.  On  an  almost  onsailed  sea.  Five  poor  freezin' 
fellows  by  themselves.  Almost  in  sight  of  home,  too. 

"  There  they  was.  No  more  power  to  manage  her  than 
if  they  'd  been  five  young  ones  put  to  sea  in  a  wash-tub. 
Just  about  as  if  you  and  the  '  Sand-peep '  was  to  put  out 
here  int'  the  harbor  and  leave  your  oars  to  home. 

"  I  've  heerd  my  grandfather  sit  and  tell  how  she  be 
haved.  Possessed  as  if  she  'd  been  a  human  creetur.  Fust 
she  'd  start  and  put  like  mad  for  sea,  head  down  and  keel 
up,  as  she  'd  scour  the  ocean  over.  Then  again  she  'd  back, 
and  go  for  home,  like  to  dash  herself  ag'in  the  coast  just  for 
temper.  Then  she  'd  change  her  mind,  and  seem  to  draw 
herself  up  and  step  along,  stately,  like  a  lady  out  on  a  pleas 
ure-trip,  and  minding  her  own  business.  Then  mebbe  she  'd 
strike  chop-seas,  and  just  set  there  waddlin'  like  a  mighty, 
helpless,  dull  old  duck.  Then  more  like  she  'd  take  the  no 
tion  and  make  for  the  nighest  breakers  like  a  bee. 

"  Hey  ?  No.  I  never  read  about  her.  Constaunce,  did 
you  say,  they  called  her  ?  I  had  a  second  cousin  of  that 
name.  Put  aboard  without  a  rudder  on  the  Mediterranean  ? 
Lived  five  year  ?  We  —  all.  I  don't  know.  That 's  a  big 
ger  yarn  than  mine.  Did  you  have  it  from  any  of  the 
lady's  relations  ? 

"  If  you  're  acquainted  with  any  folks  that  tell  a  yarn  like 
that,  you  '11  take  it  easy  about  the  '  America.'  Most  folks 
don't.  I  've  seen  men  sit  and  tell  my  grandfather  and  Cap'n 
Elwell  to  their  face  they  lied. 

"  You  see  Cape  Cod  yonder  —  that  grayish  streak.  Can't 
see  it  every  day.  Wai,  it  was  the  fust  of  January  when 
the  '  America '  lost  her  rudder.  It  was  the  fust  of  August 
when  she  was  picked  up.  As  true  as  St.  John  wrote  the 
Gospel  before  he  lost  his  head,  that  there  schooner  drifted 
about  in  these  waters  mostly  somewhere  between  Cape  Ann 
and  Cape  Cod.  from  January  until  August  next.  And  of  all 
the  souls  aboard  her,  only  one  —  but  I'll  tell  you  about 
him  presently. 


105 

"  No ;  in  all  that  while  no  living  sail  come  nigh  'em. 
That  shows,  I  take  it,  how  onsailed  the  waters  were  in 
them  days.  Though  what  with  the  war  and  trade,  I  could 
never  understand  it  only  on  the  ground  of  luck.  They  'd 
got  the  Devil's  luck. 

"  First  month,  they  could  n't  none  of  'em  understand 
how  bad  the  position  was.  Expected  to  be  picked  up,  I 
suppose.  Or  thought  they  'd  run  the  chance  of  wreck,  and 
come  out  uppermost.  And  then  their  provisions  held. 

"  But  it  come  to  be  February,  and  there  they  was ;  and 
March,  and  there  they  was ;  and  it  wore  to  be  April,  and 
it  settled  to  be  May ;  and  then  it  come  June,  and  July. 

*'  About  along  spring-time  the  provisions  they  began  to 
give  out.  Then,  I  take  it,  their  sufferings  began.  So  they 
took  the  cocoa  and  they  boiled  it  down,  and  lived  on  it, 
with  the  rum.  But  they  suffered  most  for  water.  I  take 
it,  what  those  men  did  n't  know  of  misery  ain't  much  worth 
knowing. 

"  When  the  fuel  give  out,  they  tore  out  the  inside  of  the 
boat.  When  they  were  picked  up,  I  Ve  heerd  the  inside 
was  most  gone,  scooped  out,  bare  timber  enough  left  to 
hold  her  together. 

"  When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  how  all  that  time  the 
schooner  was  drivin'  up  and  down  like  a  dead  cops  at  the 
mercy  of  the  wind  and  tide,  it  seems  to  me  it  must  have 
give  them  a  feeling  enough  to  make  a  man  go  mad.  It 
gives  me  a  sensation  to  the  brain  to  think  on't  sometimes 
safe  at  home.  I've  seen  my  grandfather  after  all  those 
years  set  in  our  setting-room  and  tell,  with  the  tears  a- 
streaming  down  his  cheeks,  to  remember  of  the  suffering 
that  they  had. 

"  Once,  I  Ve  heerd,  one  April  day,  there  'd  been  a  fog, 
and  it  lifted  sudden,  peeling  off  with  a  nor'-wester,  and  the 
men  were  lying  round  upon  the  ruined  deck  —  they  say 
they  used  to  spend  their  time  that  way  mostly,  lyin'  in  the 


106  THE   VOYAGE   OF   THE 

sun  or  rain,  stupid  like  a  sleepy  dog  —  and  all  at  once  there 
come  an  awful-cry  among  'em.  It  was  the  young  man  Bub. 
He  was  standing  in  the  bows  with  his  hands  above  his  eyes 
to  look. 

"And  all  the  boys  crawled  up  to  see.  And  there  was 
Gloucester  shores  before  'ein,  far  and  looking  peaceful  like, 
and  blessed  as  you  might  think  heaven  would  look  to  souls 
in  hell.  But  the  wind  it  shifted,  and  the  tide  set  out  shortly 
after.  And  when  the  night-fall  come,  they  had  drifted  out 
of  sight  again. 

"  From  that  hour,  folks  say,  the  poor  lad  kind  of  bat 
tened  out.  He  could  n't  eat  the  cocoa  as  the  rest  did,  and 
the  rum  it  disagreed  with  him,  and  the  drought  fell  on  in 
June,  and  the  heat  come.  He  crawled  into  a  little  corner 
forward  that  he  took  a  fancy  to,  and  set  this  way,  with  his 
hands  about  his  knees,  and  his  eyes  kind  of  staring  from  his 
head.  Times  they  tried  to  talk  to  him,  but  nothing  could 
they  get.  Only  now  and  then  he  talked  a  jumble  in  a 
gentle  way,  but  mostly  all  they  could  make  of  it  was  the 
poor  young  woman's  name. 

"  '  Annie  ?  Annie  ?  '  softly  over  like  that,  as  he  was  ask 
ing  her  a  question.  *  Annie  ? '  he  'd  say,  says  grandfather. 
Nigh  as  I  can  make  out,  I  think  the  heat  must  have  gone 
harder  by  'em  than  the  cold. 

"  The  blazin'  of  the  sky  above  your  head,  says  grand 
father,  and  the  deck  blisterin'  in  little  blisters,  and  feeling 
along  with  the  tips  of  your  fingers  beside  you,  as  you  lay 
with  your  head  upon  your  arms,  to  count  'em,  not  hav 
ing  other  thoughts,  and  seeing  the  sky  take  on  cur'ous 
colors,  as  green  and  purple,  and  seem  to  break  up  in  flying 
solid  bits,  and  spin  before  you,  as  you  'd  see  it  in  a  mighty 
dark  kaleidoscope,  and  the  gnawing  like  a  thousand  claws 
throughout  your  vitals,  and  the  loathing  of  the  cocoa,  and 
the  cur'ous  way  in  which  you  'd  feel,  as  you  had  n't  eaten 
anything  for  swallowing  of  it.  And  how,  when  you  was 


THE   VOYAGE   OF   THE   "  AMERICA."  107 

lying  there  a-tossing  up  and  down,  crazy  mebbe  (for  some 
of  'em  was  crazy  as  a  loon,  or  dead  drunk -like  with  the 
miserable  rum),  a  starving,  thirsting,  sickening,  dying,  and 
deserted  creetur,  —  sudden  you  'd  seem  to  see  the  supper- 
table  spread  to  home,  and  a  piece  of  ice  melting  slowly  at 
the  edges  down  into  the  water-pitcher ;  and  a  bit  of  bacon 
mebbe,  and  the  kind  of  muffins  that  your  wife  made  best, 
and  her  pouring  of  the  coffee  out,  and  the  children  teasing 
you  for  scraps  and  tastes,  and  of  having  had  so  much,  you 
stopped  to  feed  the  kitten  with  the  gristle.  And  then  its 
coming  to  you  all  at  once  how  fat  that  kitten  was,  and  well- 
to-do,  and  your  own  folks  feeding  her  while  you  was  starv 
ing.  '  I  can  understand,'  says  my  grandfather,  '  forever 
after  how  the  fellow  felt  in  Scripter,  when  he  said  the 
servants  in  his  father's  house  had  bread  enough,  and  some 
to  spare.  It  was  a  very*  natural  state  of  mind,'  says  grand 
father. 

"  One  chap,  he  says,  was  mostly  troubled  to  know  who 
his  wife  would  marry  after  he  was  dead.  They  was  a  fel 
low  he  'd  been  jealous  of,  and  it  bothered  him.  It  was  a 
second  wife,  too. 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  was  about  the  fishing.  Whether  it 
was  lines  they  lacked  or  luck.  Nigh  as  I  can  remember,  it 
was  both,  but  there  was  a  net,  and  they  got  a  mortal  few. 

"About  the  middle  of  July,  there  happened  a  cur'ous 
thing.  The  cocoa  was  gone.  The  day  was  hellish  hot. 
They  was  perishing  for  water  and  for  food.  Then  up  the 
Cap'n  rises  slow  and  solemn,  like  a  ghost  among  a  crew  of 
ghosts,  and,  says  he  :  '  Let  us  pray.' 

"  I  can't  say  if  it  had  just  occurred  to  him,  or  if  he  'd 
ever  said  the  same  before.  All  I  know  is,  how  he  said : 
'  Let  us  pray,'  says  Cap'n  Elwell.  Well,  they  say  the 
poor  creeturs  crawled  ont'  their  knees,  such  as  had  the 
power  left,  and  all  began  to  say  their  prayers  in  turns,  like 
children,  beginning  with  the  Cap'n,  and  so  down.  And  one, 


108  THE   VOYAGE   OF   THE    "AMERICA." 

he  said,  *  Our  Father/  and  some  they  prayed  a  regl'ar 
meetin'  prayer,  and  one  said, '  Now  I  lay  me,'  till  it  come 
to  Bub. 

u  The  poor  lad  lay  upon  the  fore  quarter-deck,  all  coiled 
up  like  a  cable,  and  panted  for  his  breath.  One  of  the  boys 
he  nudged  him. 

"  '  Come,  Bub,'  says  he,  '  it 's  your  turn.  Everybody  's 
tried  his  hand  but  you.' 

"  And  you  would  n't  believe  it,  but  up  that  creetur  got, 
and  kneeled  onsteady,  and  rolled  his  great  blue  eyes  upon 
'em,  and  folded  his  hands  together  —  and  his  hands  was 
that  worn  you  could  see  through  'em  —  and  then  he  lifted 
up  his  head  and  began  to  sing.  And  the  words  he  sung  was 
the  words  of  *  Annie  Laurie.' 

"  No  man,  I  've  heerd  say,  who  saw  that  sight,  forgot  it 
to  the  day  he  died. 

"  Sang  poor  Bub  :  — 

"  '  Her  face  is  aye  the  fairest 

That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on.' 

'And  she's  a'  the  world  to  me, 

She 's  a'  the  world  to  me !  ' 

"  They  say  you  could  have  heard  him  a  full  mile  acrost 
the  blazin',  awful  waters,  singing  there  among  them  kneel 
ing  men,  — 

"  '  She 's  a'  the  WORLD  to  me  ! ' 

"  Him  that  made  the  heart  of  man  to  cling  to  woman, 
so  deep  and  so  mysterious,  He  knows  ;  and  Him  that  made 
the  heart  of  man  to  turn  to  Him  so  weakly  and  so  help 
less,  He  may  judge.  The  feelin's  that  a  clean-natured 
young  man  will  bear  to  his  wedded  wife  ain't  so  far  removed 
from  a  pious  spirit,  to  my  thinking.  But,  as  for  poor  Bub's 
prayer,  I  ain't  a  judge,  nor  wishing  to  be  one.  I  can't  say 
what  all  that  had  to  do  with  the  fish.  Folks  have  their 
personal  opinions  about  that  fish,  as  about  most  things  that 
come  up.  All  I  know  is,  and  this  is  a  living  fact,  that  very 


THE    VOYAGE   OF    THE   "AMERICA."  109 

mortal  evening,  as  they  floated,  sickening  unto  death,  upon 
the  horrid  calm  that  fell  upon  the  sea,  there  jumps  an 
enormous  fellow  from  the  water  —  clean  out  —  and  up, 
and  over,  and  on  deck  among  them.  And  they  fell  upon 
him  like  wild  creeturs,  not  waiting  to  cook  the  flesh,  but 
eating  of  it  raw.  And  they  feasted  on  him  many  days,  and 
he  kept  them  from  starvation,  I  never  heerd  a  doubt  ex 
pressed.  But  Cap'n  Elwell,  I  've  been  told,  he  thought  it 
was  the  prayers.  There  was  a  shower  come  up  that  even 
ing,  too,  and  the  men  they  saved  a  little  water,  and  got  poor 
Bub  to  drink  it.  I  never  could  get  my  grandfather  nor  any 
one  of  'em  I  knew,  to  talk  much  of  what  took  place  upon 
the  '  America,'  after  that.  Up  to  that  p'int,  he  'd  talk  and 
talk.  But  there  he  stuck.  I  take  it  the  sufferings  they  suf 
fered  from  that  time  to  the  rescue  was  of  those  things  that 
no  mortal  man  can  jabber  of.  It's  much  with  misery  as  it 
is  with  happiness,  I  think.  About  so  far,  you  're  glad  of 
company,  and  you  like  to  cry  a  sort  of  boat  ahoy  !  to  other 
folks'  joys  or  sorrows ;  but  there  you  stop ;  you  draw  in, 
and  hold  your  tongue  and  keep  your  counsel.  Other  folks 
don't  matter. 

"  Most  I  know  is  how  they  'd  drifted  someway  nigh 
Long  Island  when  they  was  taken  off.  It  was  the  second 
day  of  August,  1780.  The  boat  that  sighted  them  was 
bound  from  Dartmouth,  over  to  England,  to  New  York 
City.  Seems  to  me,  her  Cap'n's  name  was  Neal.  At  any 
rate,  she  set  eyes  on  the  '  America,'  driftin'  helpless  up  and 
down ;  and  those  men,  like  dead  men,  setting  on  the  deck ; 
and  whether  they  made  signals  I  don't  know,  but  my  im 
pression  is,  they  'd  lost  the  strength  to  use  their  voice. 
But,  Neal,  he  lowered  his  boat,  and  he  went  to  see.  And 
there  they  was  before  him.  And  he  took  'em  off,  and 
brought  'em  home. 

"  And  all  the  town  turned  out  to  greet  them  when  they 
come.  Some  folks  I  've  heerd  they  shouted,  but  others 


110  THE   VOYAGE   OF    THE   "  AMEEICA." 

stood  and  sobbed  to  see  'em.  And  mostly,  I  think,  they 
took  'em  to  their  wives  and  children,  and  never  stopped  to 
ask  no  questions,  but  shut  the  door  and  went  about  their 
business. 

"  Years  and  years,  when  I  was  a  little  chap,  I  've  seen 
those  men  about  our  town.  Folks  looked  on  'em  as  folks 
may  have  looked,  I  often  think,  on  the  fellows  that  come 
out  of  the  tombs  when  Christ  was  crucified,  and  walked  and 
talked  among  the  livin' .  I  used  to  have  a  feeling,  as  I  was 
afraid  of  'em,  and  must  speak  softly,  for  fear  I  'd  wake  'em 
up.  And  Cap'n  Elwell,  he  lived  to  be  ninety  —  being 
postmaster  —  and  his  wife  very  nigh  the  same. 

"  No ;  I  was  coming  to  that.  I  always  hate  to,  when  I 
tell  the  story.  But  gospel 's  gospel,  and  gospel-true  you 
can't  manufacture  nor  make  over,  no  more  'n  you  can  the 
light  of  sunrise,  or  a  salt  east  wind. 

"  Of  all  them  men  on  the  '  America,'  six  months  tossing 
on  the  tides,  and  starved,  and  crazed,  and  tortured,  as  they 
was,  one  only  died.  They  all  come  back  but  just  that  one. 
And  he  was  the  poor  young  lad  that  they  called  Bub. 

"  Now,  there  's  a  singular  thing  about  that  p'int.  The 
men  that  come  home  you  never  could  get  them  to  tell  of 
that  poor  young  creetur's  last  hours.  Of  the  time  and 
manner  of  his  death,  no  man  would  speak.  Some  say  it 
was  too  dreadful  to  be  talked  of,  that  he  suffered  so,  and 
raved  about  his  wife  enough  to  break  the  hearts  of  them 
that  heard.  Some  say  he  got  delirious  and  jumped  into  the 
water.  Others  have  it  that  he  just  wasted  on  and  pined 
away,  and  that  he  lay  and  begged  for  water,  and  there  was 
a  little  in  a  dipper,  but  that  the  boys  were  stupefied,  as  you 
might  say,  and  out  of  their  own  heads,  and  nobody  noticed 
it  to  give  it  him.  And  others  say  another  thing. 

"  One  night  I  come  home  and  found  my  grandfather  there, 
I  can  remember  just  as  plain,  setting  on  the  settle  by  the 
fire-place. 


THE   VOYAGE   OF   THE   "AMERICA."  Ill 

"  *  Grandfather,'  says  I,  walking  up  and  setting  down  and 
opening  of  my  jack-knife,  I  remember,  while  I  asked  the 
question  :  '  Grandfather,  what  become  of  Bub  ?  ' 

"  i  Bub  died,'  says  the  old  man,  short  enough ;  '  we  've 
talked  enough  of  Bub.' 

"  Wai,'  says  I,  '  what  I  want  to  know  is,  you  did  n't  draw 
for  him  ? ' 

"  '  WHAT  ? '  roars  the  old  man,  turning  on  me,  like  to 
knock  me  over. 

"  '  Folks  say,'  says  I,  '  how  the  men  on  the  "  America  " 
drawed  lots  when  they  was  starving,  to  eat  each  other  up  ; 
and  I  heerd  say  the  lot  fell  on  Bub.  I  said  I  knew  better 
than  that,'  says  I,  '  and  so  I  thought  I  'd  ask.  You  did  n't 
eat  him,  did  you,  grandfather  ? '  says  I,  as  innocent  as  that. 

"  I  remember  I  was  whittling  a  thole-pin  with  my  jack- 
knife,  and  I  remember  how  I  whittled  it  all  round  smooth, 
before  that  old  man  spoke  or  stirred.  Then,  up  he  come, 
and  shook  me  till  the  breath  was  nigh  out  of  my  impudent 
little  body,  and  glares  down  at  me,  till  I  'm  frightened  so  I 
begin  to  cry. 

"  '  If  ever  I  catch  you  listening  to  such  damned  stuff 
again,'  says  grandfather,  '  I  '11  have  your  father  flog  you  till 
he 's  like  to  break  every  bone  you  've  got  ! '  Although  he 
\\~SiS  a  pious  man,  my  grandfather  did  say,  '  damned  stuff.' 
And,  after  that,  he  was  n't  pacified  with  me  for  a  year  to 
come. 

"  In  all  that  miserable  story,  now,  there  's  one  thing  I 
like  to  think  of.  The  poor  young  woman  never  lived  to 
know.  Whether  it  was  the  oncertainty  and  distress  —  but 
something  went  wrong  with  her,  everybody  agrees  on  that ; 
and  she  and  her  baby,  they  both  died  before  the  boys  come 
home  without  him.  There  used  to  be  an  old  nurse,  a  very 
old  creetur,  about  town,  that  folks  said  took  care  of  her,  and 
told  about  it ;  and  how,  at  the  very  last,  she  set  erect  in  bed, 
with  all  that  hair  of  hers  about  her,  and  says,  quite  gentle 
and  happy  in.  her  mind  :  — 


112  THE    VOYAGE   OF    THE   "AMERICA." 

" '  My  husband 's  coming  home  to-night,'  says  she  ;  and 
up  she  raised  her  arms  and  moved  one  hand  about,  though 
feeble,  as  she  was  patting  some  one  on  the  cheek,  acrost  the 
empty  pillow  ;  and  so  died. 

"  Wai,  I  've  talked  a  powerful  while.  It 's  getting  hot. 
Have  dinner  about  this  time,  at  your  house,  don't  ye  ?  If 
you  did  n't,  I  was  going  to  say  there  's  a  lady  that  I  know, 
can  give  you  information  of  the  '  America ' ;  she  's  got  a 
copy  of  the  records.  They  've  got  the  records  over  to 
Squam,  and,  if  you  find  yourself  so  minded,  I  '11  take  the 
'  Sand-peep  '  some  time  when  it 's  cooler,  and  row  you  up  to 
see  them.  No  trouble.  Just  as  lieves.  She  's  a  pretty 
plaything,  and  you  keep  her  clean.  I  would  n't  have  you 
think  I  'd  hurt  your  f eelin's  and  meant  a  disrespect  to-ward 
the  '  Sand-peep.'  " 

The  Ancient  Mariner's  tale,  I  am  well  convinced,  is,  for 
the  most  part,  history  ;  and  it  is  proper  for  me  to  add  that 
I  owe  to  the  kindness  of  "  the  lady  that  he  knew,"  —  and 
to  that  of  a  writer  of  Cape  Ann,  who,  some  time  since,  I 
am  told,  published  in  a  local  paper  a  fictitious  version  of 
these  facts,  —  an  exact  copy  of  the  records  upon  which  the 
popular  faith  in  the  story  leans. 

These  are  the  old  parish  records  of  Annisquam,  and  were 
kept  by  one  Rev.  Obadiah  Parsons  ;  upon  whose  authority 
we  have  the  following  facts  :  — 

"  The  schooner  '  America,'  Capt.  Isaac  Elwell,  sailed 
from  Gloucester,  the  last  of  July,  1779,  for  the  West  Indies, 
which  she  left  Nov.  25,  bound  for  this  town.  She  met  with 
remarkably  severe  weather  off  this  coast,  and  about  ye  first 
of  Jan.,  1780,  when  within  a  few  hours'  sail  of  Cape  Ann, 
ye  wind  suddenly  put  into  ye  north-west,  he  lost  ye  vessel's 
rudder  and  was  drove  off  ye  coast  again,  and  driven  hither 
and  thither  on  the  ocean  till  ye  second  day  of  August  last, 
when  they  were  taken  off  ye  wreck  by  Capt.  Henry  Neal, 


THE  VOYAGE   OF   THE   "AMERICA."  113 

of  N.  York,  on  his  passage  from  Dartmouth,  Eng.,  to  N.  Y. 
Who,  when  near  Long  Island,  Aug.  10th,  gave  a  boat  to 
Capt.  Elwell,  in  which  he  and  the  survivors  of  his  crew, 
viz.  ;  John  Woodward,  Sam'el  Edmundston,  Jacob  Saney, 
and  Nath'el  Allen  came  alongshore  and  arrived  at  Cape 
Ann,  Aug.  26,  1780.  Many  were  ye  hardships  Capt.  Elwell 
and  his  crew  endured  for  six  months  and  seventeen  days ; 
they  had  no  bread  nor  meat  to  eat ;  they  lived  on  parched 
cocoa  and  N.  England  rum  burned  down,  and  sometimes 
they  ate  fishes  raw  ;  in  their  greatest  extremity,  a  large  fish 
providentially  leaped  on  ye  vessel's  deck,  which  served  them 
for  several  days.  They  were  frequently  in  great  distress 
for  want  of  water." 

8 


WRECKED  IN  PORT. 


I  NEVER  set  out  here  to  the  mouth  of  the  harbor,  an 
chored  or  becalmed  (your  line  's  taut,  sir  !),  or  similarly  or 
otherwise  at  my  leisure  to  take  a  fair  squint  inwards  at  the 
town,  but  I  wonder  what  it  may  be  like  to  go  stark,  staring 
mad. 

If  you  '11  haul  in  a  mite  faster  now,  it  '11  be  better  for 
you,  and  just  as  well  for  the  fish. 

That 's  about  it. 

I  've  noticed  it  about  our  cod,  they  know  when  I  take 
gentlemen  out,  as  well  as  I  know  myself.  They  '11  take  ad 
vantage  of  you,  if  they  can,  most  any  day.  Maybe  it  rs  a 
professional  preference,  or  a  political,  I  'm  sure  I  could  n't 
say.  I  'd  be  willing  to  grant  a  Gloucester  cod  his  choice  of 
either,  and  then  admit  that  he  might  have  a  mixed  motive 
to  bottom  of  it.  It's  natural  enough,  brought  up  as  they 
are  from  infancy  on  the  Fishery  Question,  with  views  more 
or  less  decided  and  distinct. 

A  little  blue  you  are  about  the  mouth,  sir.  I  'd  lay  down 
if  I  was  you.  It 's  better  for  you,  and  quite  as  well  for 
the  fish,  as  I  said  before,  and  I  'm  used  to  it,  bless  you ! 
When  it  is  too  rough  for  a  gentleman  outside,  and  it  very 
often  is,  I  always  say  :  "  Just  lay  down  and  take  it  easy, 
and  leave  the  cod  to  me."  He  takes  as  many  pound  home 
to  his  wife  come  night,  I  reckon,  and  nobody  the  wiser  for 
it,  and  who  '11  ask  questions  ?  Not  me,  nor  yet  the  cod. 
How  does  that  go  ?  There  !  When  there  's  a  mite  less 
embarrassment  between  yourself,  sir,  and  your  stomach,  I  '11 


WRECKED   IN    POET.  115 

explain  to  you  the  feeling  I  had  occasion  to  mention  about 
the  harbor  mouth,  and  looking  inwards  at  the  town. 

Well  —  and  yet  it  ain't  so  easy  to  explain.  Most  things 
ain't.  I  've  told  it  times  enough,  and  yet  not  the  whole  of 
it  either.  There  are  folks,  you  know,  you  can  talk  to,  and 
again  there  are  folks  you  can't.  There  are  boarders  in  the 
little  hall  chamber,  not  to  mention  names,  I  would  n't  tell 
Jib  Hancko's  story  to,  not  for  a  week's  board  outright ;  but 
a  pleasant  way,  sir,  and  an  honest,  as  between  man  and 
man,  and  no  complaining  of  the  coffee,  and  not  staving  the 
dories  in  regardless  because  they  ain't  your  own,  and  a  kind 
of  forethought  for  the  cabbages  if  the  garden  lays  between 
you  and  the  bathing-house,  why,  that  's  a  differ ent  thing. 

You  '11  remember  of  hearing  of  the  great  gale  of  1839  ? 
No  !  You  don't  say  !  It 's  a  surprising  thing  to  me  how 
ignorant  folks  are  in  the  country.  There  are  some  smart 
men  come  from  the  country,  too. 

We  were  booked  for  Boston  when  the  great  gale  of  '39 
came  up.  It  was  the  last  voyage  I  took  to  Boston.  Fact 
is,  I  may  as  well  own  it  was  the  last  voyage  I  took  anywhere. 
I  was  n't  born  with  a  reef-knot  between  my  fingers,  never 
boarded  a  fishing-smack  that  I  did  n't  feel  I  'd  as  lief 's  be 
boarding  my  coffin,  and  that  gale  made  a  landlubber  of  me 
once  for  all. 

We  cleared  from  Wiscasset,  along  about  the  first  week, 
if  I  recollect,  the  first  week  of  December,  in  the  schooner 
Pansie,  with  a  cargo  of  lath  and  piles.  We  had  about  fifty 
thousand  feet  of  lath  aboard.  Griggs  was  our  cap'n.  He 
belonged  in  Wiscasset.  He  had  his  mother  aboard.  She 
was  an  old  lady,  over  seventy  year  old.  He  was  taking  her 
to  Boston  to  spend  the  winter  with  her  daughter. 

"  The  old  lady  enjoys  it,  having  these  fair  blows,"  says 
he  one  day  to  Hancko,  standing  aft.  "  She  is  n't  much  of 
a  sailor." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  a  woman  that  was  ?  "  asked  Hancko. 
Jib  Hancko  was  mate. 


116  WRECKED   IN   POET. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  says  the  cap'n. 

"  /have,"  says  I.  And  so  I  had.  But  she  was  n't  aboard 
the  Pansie  that  trip,  thank  heaven  !  and  it  was  n't  necessary 
to  specify  where  she  was,  as  I  remarked  to  Jib  when  he 
made  the  inquiry.  She  went  to  the  Banks  with  me  once 
along  with  her  father,  who  was  skipper  of  the  smack.  You 
would  n't  believe,  to  see  her  turning  over  a  griddle-cake  or 
a  cruller  now,  what  a  sailor  she  was.  She  hauled  a  catch 
as  big  as  mine  right  along  any  day  ;  the  only  thing  she 
failed  up  on  was  stripping  of  the  mackerel.  Tt  was  while 
I  was  to  work  stripping  of  the  mackerel,  to  spare  her  tender 
eyes,  that  I  first  began  to  think  of  her.  She  was  down  to 
Calais,  visiting  a  cousin  of  hers,  when  I  took  that  trip  to 
Boston. 

The  skipper's  mother  was  a  kind  of  cute  old  lady  to  see 
round.  She  sat  on  deck  most  every  day,  mending  up 
Griggs's  shirts.  She  set  the  world  by  Griggs.  She  used 
to  stop  me  most  every  time  I  happened  round,  and  say :  — 

"  My  son  's  taking  me  to  Boston  to  spend  the  winter  with 
my  daughter.  He  said  it  should  n't  cost  me  nothing.  My 
daughter's  children  have  got  the  whooping-cough,  and  she 
thought  she  'd  like  to  have  me  come." 

Then  the  next  time  I  came  along  she  had  it  over  :  "  My 
son  's  taking  me  to  Boston.  He  said  it  should  n't  cost  me 
nothing.  My  daughter's  children  have  got  the  whooping- 
cough  "  —  just  the  same. 

Some  of  the  boys  laughed  at  the  old  lady  ;  but  I  could  n't 
some  way ;  she  looked  so  cute,  sitting  up  there  on  deck, 
mending  Griggs's  shirts. 

Jib  Hancko  used  to  play  backgammon  with  her  (not  that 
the  old  woman  could  play  backgammon  more'n  a  monk-fish, 
but  she  thought  she  could,  and  that  amounted  to  the  same 
thing,  as  it  does  with  most  of  us  in  most  things),  and  find 
her  knitting-needles  for  her,  and  set  her  up  easy  with  her 
shawls  in  the  sunny  spots  among  the  piles. 


WRECKED    IN   PORT.  117 

Jib  set  almost  as  much  by  the  skipper  as  the  old  lady  did 
herself.  He  and  Griggs  had  run  this  coast  together,  master 
and  mate,  some  half  a  dozen  years  ;  they  always  were  agree 
able  to  one  another's  women-folks ;  at  least  Griggs  would 
have  been,  no  doubt,  but  Jib  had  n't  any  himself  —  not  a 
living  woman.  He  courted  a  girl  once  down  our  way,  up  to 
Squam ;  she  was  washed  off  the  rocks  at  Little  Good  Har 
bor,  at  a  picnic,  one  day  ;  I  never  heard  of  any  other.  Be 
fore  the  trip  was  over,  I  was  glad  of  it,  too.  I  Ve  heard 
that 's  where  Griggs  got  the  name  of  that  schooner,  but  I 
can't  say.  All  I  know  is,  that  was  the  given  name  of  the 
young  woman  —  Pansie  ;  and  she  was  painted  about  the 
time  of  the  funeral.  Griggs  was  a  polite  fellow  about  such 
things. 

I  don't  believe  you  '11  ever  see  a  nicer  day,  sir,  this  side  of 
heaven,  than  I  saw  aboard  the  Pansie  on  Saturday,  the  14th 
of  December,  1839.  It  blew  from  sou'-sou'-west  as  softly  as 
a  woman  singing  to  a  baby.  There  were  clouds,  a  few  of 
them,  of  color  like  mother-of-pearl,  curling  at  the  edges  like 
a  shell,  and  the  noon  warmed  up  warm  as  a  May-day  over 
head.  Some  of  the  boys  went  in  for  a  swim,  it  looked  so 
warm.  The  old  lady  sat  on  deck  without  her  extra  shawls, 
and  the  skipper  was  afraid  she  'd  take  cold. 

"  You  '11  be  in  Boston  to-morrow,  God  willing,  mother," 
says  the  skipper  (the  skipper  was  a  pious  man  at  times,  a 
Methodist),  "  and  I  'd  be  sorry  to  take  you  in  all  hoarsed 
up  ;  Keziah  would  think  I  had  n't  taken  good  care  of  you." 

Upon  this  the  old  lady  pipes  up  again :  — 

"  My  son  will  take  me  into  Boston  to-morrow.  Keziah's 
children  have  got  the  whooping-cough,  and  she  thought 
she  'd  like  to  see  me  !  " 

I  noticed  Griggs  putting  on  her  shawl  for  her,  and  put 
ting  on  her  shawl  for  her,  half  the  afternoon  ;  the  old  lady 
dropped  it  off,  and  dropped  it  off ;  finally,  Jib  Hancko  got 
a  little  shingle-nail  and  pinned  it  together  for  her  through 
the  fringe. 


118  WRECKED   IN   POET. 

It  was  on  towards  five  o'clock  that  I  saw  the  mate  stand 
talking  in  a  confidential  way  alone  in  the  stern  with  the 
skipper.  Except  when  under  orders,  he  was  on  very  confi 
dential  terms  with  Griggs.  He  nods,  and  Griggs  nods,  and 
Hancko  points  to  the  sou'-east,  and  the  skipper  nods  again, 
and  walks  the  deck  a  bit,  and  stops  to  ask  the  old  lady  how 
she  feels,  and  back  again  to  the  mate ;  but  I  could  n't  make 
head  nor  tail  of  them  until  six  o'clock,  when  we  got  an  or 
der  to  tack  and  put  into  Gloucester  over  night. 

The  captain  did  n't  like  the  looks  of  the  sou'-east ;  thought 
there  was  an  ugliness,  more  or  less,  in  it;  may  be  there  was 
mischief  ahead,  and  may  be  there  was  n't :  having  his  mother 
aboard,  he  thought  he  'd  be  on  the  safe  side  ;  any  way,  there 
was  the  order :  Into  Gloucester  over  night. 

We  got  it  round  among  us,  by  degrees,  as  we  rounded 
Eastern  Point  —  it 's  never  any  nonsense  rounding  Eastern 
Point  —  and  sulky  enough  we  were  about  it,  too.  One  of 
the  lads  had  a  young  one  with  the  croup  in  Boston,  he  'd 
counted  on  seeing  by  Sunday  night.  Couple  of  'em  had  tick 
ets  to  a  dance  in  a  Mariner's  Tavern.  Most  of  'em  wanted 
liquor.  One  of  'em  —  his  name  was  Ben  Bumper  —  said :  — 

"  Curse  the  old  lady !  " 

Next  minute  he  lay  on  deck  for  it,  flat  as  a  griddle-cake. 
He  did  n't  count  on  the  mate's  being  round  when  he  made 
the  observation. 

Jib  Hancko  was  a  little  man  with  .a  squint  eye  :  but  when 
his  blood  was  up  he  looked  more  like  a  likeness  I  've  seen 
of  Giant  Despair,  in  a  book  called  the  Pilgrim's  Progress, 
than  any  other  man  alive  I  ever  come  across. 

Well,  so  we  put  into  port,  and  anchored  —  just  about 
there ;  no,  a  little  further  to  your  right ;  just  beyond  that 
red  buoy  where  you  see  the  very  young  gentleman's  dory 
tied  to  fish,  and  the  young  lady  in  the  red  jacket  screeching 
at  the  bait. 

That  was  about  half-past  six.     It  had  freshened  up  a  lit- 


WRECKED  IN   PORT.  119 

tie,  but  no  more  than  you  'd  expect  of  any  high-spirited  De 
cember  evening.  Half  a  dozen  of  the  lads  wanted  to  put 
over  into  Fresh  Water  Cove  for  a  lark  ;  but  Griggs  was  ob 
stinate  as  a  mule ;  he  kept  all  hands  aboard,  and  mad  as 
hornets. 

We  had  neighbors  plenty  by  nine  o'clock,  but  none  too 
many.  There 's  always  shipping  enough  runs  in  for  a 
night's  lodging  to  Gloucester ;  always  was,  even  in  those 
days.  Griggs  brought  the  old  lady  up  to  see  the  lights  of 
the  Harbor  —  by  which  we  meant  the  town  there,  same  as 
we  mean  it  now  —  and  the  twinkle  of  the  shipping,  red  as 
blood  and  green  as  grass,  to  starboard  and  to  port,  while 
sailing  in  ;  and  the  pale  flame-color  of  the  lanterns  swinging 
on  the  anchored  craft. 

But  the  old  lady  said  she  'd  rather  her  son  would  take  her 
into  Boston,  and  she  was  afraid  her  daughter's  children 
would  sit  up  late  for  her,  and  that  was  very  bad  for  children 
with  the  whooping-cough. 

It  was  about  midnight  that  the  blow  stood  up  —  about 
midnight  between  the  Saturday  and  the  Sunday  of  the  four 
teenth  and  the  fifteenth  days  of  December,  1839. 

From  that  hour  until  Tuesday  morning  there  was  no  rest 
in  the  heaven  above,  nor  the  earth  beneath,  nor  the  waters 
under  the  earth,  for  the  soul  nor  for  the  body  of  any  of 
them  that  go  out  in  ships  and  down  into  the  sea  along  this 
Massachusetts  coast ;  and  though  I  say  it  that  should  n't, 
being  a  good  citizen,  and  voting  the  straight  Republican 
ticket  year  in  and  out,  it  's  the  awfulest,  cruelest,  coldest 
coast  I  ever  trusted  to  the  mercy  of,  or  the  honor  of,  or  the 
fellow-feeling  of,  from  the  time  I  first  set  foot  on  shipboard 
to  this  day. 

If  you  look  over  the  Eastern  Light  there  you  '11  see  how 
it  must  have  struck  that  sheer  wall  of  rock  on  the  Fresh 
Water  side. 

It  struck   as  straight   as  an  arrow   from   the  sou'-east. 


120  WRECKED   IN   PORT. 

And  as  sharp.  It  was  more  the  sharpness  than  the  heft  at 
the  beginning.  It  snowed  a  little,  too,  in  a  sleety  way  ; 
that 's  the  worry  of  a  gale.  I  'd  rather  it  would  rain  a 
deluge. 

Howsoever,  being  at  anchor,  and  in  port,  we  thought  no 
more  of  it  than  to  own  the  skipper  knew  his  business  as  well 
as  we  did,  and  chaff  Ben  Bumper  on  that  little  remark  of 
his  concerning  the  old  lady,  at  spare  minutes,  until  the 
morning. 

All  the  solemn,  roaring,  blinding  night,  the  ships  came 
scudding  in  from  open  sea  for  shelter.  I  watched  them, 
being  aloft,  with  a  serious  feeling  in  my  mind  I  could  n't 
have  found  reasons  to  explain.  They  were  so  still  about  it, 
and  so  many ;  it  occurred  to  my  thoughts  towards  morning 
that  they  were  unusual  many,  and  the  blood-red  lanterns 
that  have  struck  your  fancy  so,  sir,  smoking  off  the  rocks 
by  my  house  of  a  quiet  evening,  gave  me  a  notion  that  was 
most  surprising,  about  wounded  creatures  that  the  rocks  had 
gored. 

When  the  Sunday  morning  lifted,  the  masts  were  thick 
as  mosquitoes  at  a  lighted  window,  all  up  and  down  the 
harbor.  The  sky  was  dull  as  death.  Off  over  the  Point, 
along  by  Niles's  trees  there,  a  little  palish  streak  lay,  of 
a  sort  of  salmon  color,  and  with  an  unpleasant  twitch  across 
it,  like  a  winking  man.  On  account  of  the  swinging  of  the 
schooner,  and  the  swinging  of  our  neighbors,  and  the  slope 
of  the  swell  before  the  eyes,  all  Gloucester  shores  seemed 
waltzing  in  a  horrid  waltz  ;  and  what  was  curious  about  it, 
was  to  see  them  waltzing  to  the  time  beat  by  the  Sunday 
church-bells.  They  rang  at  half-past  nine  at  the  Harbor, 
and  I  could  see  folks,  like  specks,  stir  through  the  icy  spray 
to  go  to  meeting.  I  could  n't  help  wondering  that  morning 
if  any  of  them  said  their  prayers  for  folks  at  sea.  Not  that 
we  looked  for  any  mischief  at  that  hour,  and  who  ever 
thought  to  pray  for  folks  in  port  ? 


WRECKED   IN   PORT.  121 

It  blew  all  the  morning  and  it  blew  all  the  afternoon. 

The  skipper  came  up  about  dinner-time,  and  says  to  the 
mate  :  — 

u  I  wish  I  had  the  old  lady  ashore  to-day." 

But  we  could  have  got  to  China  as  easy  as  we  could 
have  got  ashore  —  some  three  or  four  boats'-lengths  — 
on  to  the  awful  rocks  nigh  Fresh  Water  Cove,  that  Sunday 
noon. 

Yes,  sir,  it  looks  still  enough  over  there  now,  and  green 
and  soft,  and  kindly  to  the  eye ;  and  the  foam  against  the 
rocks  falls  and  rises  in  a  pleasant  manner,  much  like  the 
muslin  curtain,  I  often  think,  that  hangs  in  our  big  parlor- 
window.  See  how  Half-way  Rock  looms  to-day  ?  And 
the  purple  color  that  hangs  on  Norman's  Woe  ?  You  should 
have  walked  up  and  down  Niles's  beach  and  looked  at  Nor 
man's  Woe  on  that  Sunday  noon,  the  15th  of  December, 
1839.  They  said  it  looked  like  the  mouth  of  the  Bottom 
less  Pit ;  and  that  the  spray  rolled  up  like  smoke. 

By  two  o'clock  they  'd  begun  to  go  ashore.  A  brig  and 
two  schooners  broke  there  in  the  Sunday  daylight  before 
our  eyes.  One  smashed  to  splinters  just  above  us  here. 
She  was  from  Mount  Desert ;  I  forget  the  name.  An  old 
man  and  his  three  boys  went  down.  I  could  see  them 
dropping  off  like  flies.  You  see  the  rigging  froze  so,  and 
everything  you  touched  glazed  over  and  slipped  up.  It 
blew  all  the  afternoon,  and  it  blew  all  the  evening. 

A  little  to  the  fore  of  midnight,  the  skipper  sent  Hancko 
below  after  the  old  lady.  Jib  brought  her  up,  and  they  tied 
her  to  the  mainmast  with  a  tippet  she  was  knitting  for  her 
daughter's  children,  and  almost  broke  her  heart.  Griggs 
would  have  her  on  deck,  and  handy.  Heaven  nor  earth 
could  n't  tell,  he  said,  what  would  come  next. 

"  Good  God ! "  says  he,  "  if  this  goes  on,  we  shall  go 
down  at  anchor  like  a  baby's  raft !  " 

To  say  that  that  two-hundred-and-fif  ty-tonner  just  swashed, 


122  WRECKED   IN   PORT. 

sir,  like  the  chips  you  're  throwing  in  this  minute,  ain't  to 
say  anything  about  it.  To  say  that  we  could  n't  tell  one 
minute  from  another,  whether  we  stood  on  our  keel  or  our 
mainmast,  ain't  to  give  you  an  idea.  To  say  how  the  gale 
put  arms  under  us,  and  .clutched  us  in,  and  then  stepped 
back  an  awful  step  or  two,  over  Eastern  Point,  and  down 
with  its  head,  and  bunted  at  us,  and  up  with  its  shoulders 
and  h'isted  us  along,  dead  against  the  rock,  ain't  to  express 
nor  to  imply  it. 

To  say  that  at  midnight  of  that  Sunday  night  all  hell 
opened  under  Gloucester  Harbor,  is  to  draw  upon  your  im 
agination,  sir  ;  but  it 's  the  best  I  can  do. 

Five  minutes  after  twelve,  the  cry  came  up :  — 

"  We  've  slipped  our  anchor  !  " 

Five  minutes  more,  and  we  were  on  the  rocks. 

"  If  we  don't  swamp  before  we  've  time  to  break,"  cries 
the  skipper,  "  there  's  chance  for  a  rope.  Volunteers  for  a 
rope,  my  lads  !  " 

For  folks  were  upon  shore  from  the  village,  and  cries 
came  up,  and  every  time  the  sound  cut  through  the  thunder, 
the  Pansie  leaped  as  if  she  would  answer  to  it,  and  rammed 
herself  between  the  teeth  of  the  breakers  like  a  wedge. 

We  looked  at  one  another,  but  no  man  stirred. 

Said  Ben  Bumper,  "  Curse  a  rope  !  " 

Said  Jib  Hancko,  slowly,  "  I  guess  I  '11  go." 

But  the  skipper  turned  round  on  him  —  says  he  :  — 

"  I  'd  go  myself  if  it  was  n't  for  the  old  lady.  Anyhow, 
I  won't  send  you  Jib.  Who  '11  hold  ont'  the  old  lady  if  I 
don't  get  acrost  ?  " 

"  I  '11  hold  ont'  the  old  lady,"  said  Jib  Hancko,  slow  as 
ever ;  "  but  I  'd  rather  go  myself,  Cap'n  Griggs." 

"  Hold  your  tongue !  "  roars  Griggs  through  the  bellow 
of  the  blast.  "  I  won't  send  you  if  nobody  goes,  Jib 
Hancko  !  If  I  don't  get  acrost,  you  hold  ont'  the  old  lady, 
will  you,  Jib?" 


WRECKED   IN   PORT.  123 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  says  Jib. 

"  And  if  I  do  get  acrost,  you  '11  hold  out'  the  old  lady, 
will  you,  Jib?  She's  to  come  over  first,  you  understand 
—  do  you,  Jib  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir,"  says  Jib. 

With  that,  the  skipper  steps  up  and  kisses  the  old  lady, 
before  us  all,  once  on  one  cheek,  and  once  on  the  other. 

"  Good-by,  mother  !  "  says  he. 

But  the  old  lady  only  wrung  her  hands  and  said  they  'd 
spoiled  Charles  Henry's  tippet,  and  she  was  very  cold. 

Well,  so  Griggs  set  off  with  the  rope.  It  was  an  ugly 
job.  Twice  we  thought  he  'd  gone,  and  three  times  we 
thought  he'd  gone,  and  once  the  mate  struck  his  two  fists 
together  so  the  blood  come  from  his  knuckles. 

"  The  rope  's  parted !  "  says  he. 

But  next  minute  through  the  hellish  noise  we  heard  the 
skipper's  voice,  and  saw,  through  the  thin  and  broken  shine 
of  lanterns  that  folks  held  on  shore,  that  the  rope  lay  over, 
safe  and  sound. 

Now,  would  you  believe  it,  sir,  that  after  that,  that  old 
creature  would  n't  budge  an  inch  ?  I  declare,  it  makes  me 
feel  bad  to  think  of  it,  to  this  day. 

"  Come,  mother  ?  "  says  Jib  Hancko,  hurrying  her  up  in 
a  gentle  way,  for  we  were  terribly  strained  and  mangled, 
and  no  time  to  lose.  But  she  sat  and  wrung  her  hands,  and 
wrung  her  hands  —  quite  crazed  by  fright  and  cold,  and 
crying  out :  — 

"  My  son  's  carrying  me  to  Boston  to  spend  the  winter 
with  my  daughter  !  He  said  it  should  n't  cost  me  nothing  ! 
My  daughter's  children  have  got  the  whooping-cough !  " 

Do  our  best,  we  could  n't  stir  her,  hide  nor  hair. 

"  Lord  A'mighty !  "  said  Jib  Hancko.  But  after  that  he 
held  his  tongue.  He  went  and  sat  down  by  the  old  lady,  and 
untied  the  tippet  from  her,  and  put  his  arms  around,  her. 
The  cargo  leaped  and  struck  at  them,  in  plunging  over.  I 


124  WHECKED   IN   POET. 

saw  blood  upon  his  head  and  face.  lie  wiped  it  off  with  his 
lee  elbow,  so  the  old  lady  should  n't  see  it.  He  sat  crouched 
up  a  little  to  keep  the  timber  off  from  her,  I  take  it,  with  his 
head  and  shoulders  out  —  so. 

Well,  we  went  and  left  them,  sir.  What  else  could  we 
do  ?  Ben  Bumper  was  the  first.  Half-way  over  he  cried 
out  and  dropped.  What  he  did  we  never  knew  —  whether 
he  was  struck,  or  slipped,  or  froze,  or  what  it  was.  Some 
of  the  lads  said  it  was  for  damning  the  old  lady.  But  I 
don't  know.  All  I  know  is  he  just  cried  out  and  dropped. 
Yes,  we  left  'em,  him  and  the  old  lady,  sitting  side  by  side. 
I  felt  as  mean  as  Lucifer.  I  called  out  good-by  to  him,  and 
how  mean  I  felt.  But  the  blast  blew  his  answer  the  other 
way. 

I  saw  his  lips  move,  but  I  lost  the  words.  I  heard  the 
old  lady,  though,  as  I  swung  off.  You  could  have  heard  her 
in  purgatory,  if  you  'd  been  so  far.  She  piped  up  like  a 
weasel :  — 

"  My  son's  carrying  me  to  Boston  !  He  said  it  shouldn't 
cost  me  nothing  " — 

I  heard  her  until  I  got  ashore.  Griggs  did  n't.  himself. 
He  was  chilled  or  frozen,  or  something  of  that  kind,  and  in 
a  kind  of  faint,  they  said.  I  was  mighty  glad  of  it,  I  must 
say.  The  old  creeture  did  pipe  up  so !  We  stood  on  the 
rocks  and  watched  them,  well  as  we  could  see  them  through 
the  beating  of  the  blow.  I  had  a  feeling  as  if  my  eyes  were 
beaten  in  my  head.  I  put  both  hands  up  to  hold  'em. 
I  saw  Hancko  trying  to  tie  a  life-preserver  on  to  the  old 
lady.  The  other  boys  did  n't.  But  I  did.  He  tried  to  tie 
it  on,  and  she  sat  and  wrung  her  hands.  I  don't  suppose  I 
heard  her,  but  I  'd  have  sworn  I  did,  a-piping  up  :  — 

"He  said  it  shouldn't  cost  me  nothing !  " 

Hancko  stood  up.  I  saw  that.  He  stood  looking  straight 
ahead.  I  thought  he  had  a  grand  look,  being  at  a  distance 
where  you  missed  the  squinting  of  his  eye.  And  he  stood 


WRECKED   IN   POET.  125 

so  tall,  sir,  on  that  wreck,  as  tall  as  I  stand  to-day,  which 
is  six  foot  three  in  my  stockings. 

I  suppose  when  a  man's  courting  his  wife  he  thinks  more 
of  such  things  quite  natural ;  but  I  could  n't  help  thinking, 
when  I  saw  Jib  Hancko  standing  there,  of  that  young 
woman  down  to  Squam.  If  she  'd  been  down  to  Calais  vis 
iting  a  cousin  now,  it  would  have  seemed  a  pity.  And  I 
wondered  if  he  thought  of  it,  how  he  and  the  Pansie  were 
going  down  together  by  themselves. 

Next  minute  there  come  the  awfulest,  longest,  horridest 
cry  I  ever  listened  to  on  land  or  sea.  Whether  it  was  the 
old  lady  as  she  struck  water,  or  whether  it  was  the  skipper 
coming  to  and  seeing  the  Pansie's  head-light  out,  or  whether 
it  was  the  devils  below  or  the  angels  above,  I  could  n't  tell 
you  to  this  day. 

I  don't  think  you  could  understand,  sir,  unless  you  'd 
been  through  it  yourself,  what  a  feeling  it  gives  a  man  to 
full  and  slip,  slip  and  fall,  clutch  and  cling,  and  drop  plumb 
down  a  wall  of  rock  like  that —  all  ice  beneath  you  and 
about  you  —  and  squeeze  your  feet  into  a  little  ledge  you 
know  of,  and  jam  your  fingers  into  a  little  crack  above  your 
head,  to  save  a  human  creeture  if  so  be  it  washes  up  against 
you,  and  see  the  lath  and  piles  come  thundering  in.  To  see 
'em  rear  and  strike,  and  topple  over,  and  splinter  up  like 
tea-cups,  and  suck  under,  and  slip  off.  To  hear  the  noise 
they  made  in  hitting,  and  to  mistake  'em  for  human  legs 
and  arms,  and  grab  at  them,  and  lose  your  balance,  and 
duck  your  head  as  they  come  crashing  up.  Nor  yet  to  dodge 
a  bundle  of  lath  carried  shoulders  over  on  one  awful  wave, 
and  find  you  'd  dodged  a  human  body,  sir,  and  it  was  bang 
ing  up  against  the  cliff  like  sea-weed,  before  your  very  eyes. 

Well,  I  dodged  him  just  that  way  ;  then  I  sprang  on  him, 
then  I  lost  him  ;  then  I  had  him,  I  could  n't  tell  you  how  — 
by  the  hair,  by  the  leg,  by  the  collar,  all  ways,  no  ways : 
he  was  very  slippery.  It  was  a  very  slippery  feeling  I  had, 
what  with  him  and  the  ice. 


126  WRECKED   IN   POET. 

Yes.  Oh,  yes  !  They  got  us  up.  I  was  n't  much  hurt 
myself.  I  don't  know  how  it  happened  about  Hancko. 
He  lay  such  a  dead  weight,  I  suppose. 

There  was  a  hole  there  in  the  rock.  You  could  see  it  if 
we  were  nigh  enough.  None  too  big  for  a  man's  body. 
They  had  to  pull  him  through.  Twice  they  had  him,  and 
he  slipped.  He  was  awfully  jammed. 

Well,  the  Monday  morning  came  at  last.  I  had  a  feeling 
all  the  night  as  if  the  sun  would  never  rise  again.  But 
Monday  morning  come  like  other  Monday  mornings,  and 
folks  hung  out  their  washing  all  along  the  shore. 

But  it  was  the  awfulest  Monday  morning,  sir,  that  ever 
Gloucester  knew.  All  the  shore,  from  Pavilion  Beach  there 
to  Norman's  Woe,  was  covered  with  wreck  washed  up  like 
pebbles  on  the  beach.  All  up  and  down  the  harbor  ruins 
of  boats  lay  rocking  in  the  wind.  Some  went  to  shore  as 
we  did,  and  cracked  on  the  rocks,  dead  weight ;  some  got 
speared  in  the  breakers ;  some  drifted  off  to  sea ;  many  of 
'em  just  went  down  at  their  anchors,  with  the  lights  of  the 
town  in  their  faces,  or  swamped  before  striking  the  rocks. 
Fifty  craft  went  to  pieces  in  that  harbor,  and  fifty  men,  some 
folks  said,  went  to  the  bottom  before  the  blow  was  over. 

The  harbor  lay  a  solid  sheet  of  foam  that  day,  from  end 
to  end.  From  its  having  such  a  white  and  shining  look  it 
made  me  think  about  the  Sea  of  Glass  we  read  of,  sir.  I 
thought  of  it  when  I  saw  them  drag  the  bodies  up,  and  the 
poor  fellows'  faces  turned  up  on  the  snow.  Arid  I  won 
dered  if  their  ghosts  were  walking  up  and  down  the  chan 
nel  in  the  winter  morning,  playing  harps.  It  seemed  such 
freezing  work.  All  along  the  coast,  and  in  Boston  Bay, 
and  off  Cape  Cod,  it  was  an  awful  blow.  But  Gloucester 
got  the  knuckles  of  it. 

The  old  lady  come  ashore  that  morning.  We  hauled  her 
up  and  carried  her  into  a  little  shed  there  was  about  there, 
and  covered  her  over  with  a  bed-quilt  before  the  skipper  saw 
her. 


WRECKED   IN   PORT.  127 

We  never  found  Ben  Bumper. 

The  mate  come  to  about  dawn  ;  that  is  to  say,  as  much 
as  Jib  Hancko  will  ever  come  to,  this  side  of  the  place 
where  the  young  woman  from  Squam  has  gone  to  (for 
which,  if  I  'd  been  a  pious  man,  I  should  have  thanked  the 
God  of  Sea  and  Shore).  It  wouldn't  have  been  a  pleasant 
job  for  her  riding  over  in  the  wind  four  miles  that  morning, 
to  see  the  cuts  he  had  about  the  head,  and  the  look. 

You  see  the  jam  was  all  about  the  head.  We  warmed 
him  up,  and  rubbed  him  up,  and  cheered  him  up,  and  Griggs 
paid  the  doctor  seventy-five  cents  for  feeling  of  his  pulse ; 
but  it  was  no  mortal  use.  He  sat  as  crazy  as  a  loon  in  the 
kitchen  of  the  house  we  took  him  to,  chattering  about  that 
old  lady,  and  saying  how  he  'd  held  on,  until  I  wished  for 
one,  he  'd  gone  to  the  bottom  with  her  himself.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  would  have  been  an  arrangement  much  more 
agreeable  to  the  young  woman  from  Squam  —  if  she  has 
her  preferences  in  her  existing  residence  —  than  the  present. 

Not  but  what  Griggs  has  paid  his  board  quite  regularly, 
and  been  to  inquire  about  him  at  the  asylum  twice  a  year, 
then  and  ever  since.  And  he  's  peaceable,  too,  and  very 
happy  in  his  mind,  they  say,  and  spends  his  time  in  whit 
tling  little  figure-heads  for  ships,  with  the  name  of  Pansie 
underneath,  in  purple  ink,  done  with  a  fine  steel  pen. 

We  did  n't  mean  him  to  get  into  that  shed  that  morning, 
but  he  got  in  somehow ;  took  us  all  by  surprise,  and  at  our 
wit's  end  for  him. 

It  was  a  dreadfully  bleak  little  open  shed,  and  the  old 
lady  looked  uncommonly  cold,  even  considering  the  circum 
stances.  Griggs  was  sitting  by  her  with  his  hat  jammed  on 
his  eyes.  Two  or  three  of  us  were  about,  standing  in  the 
door. 

Hancko  walks  in  with  his  head  in  its  bandages,  white  and 
bloody,  straight  to  Griggs. 

"Well,  Griggs,"  says  he,  "I  held  ont'  the  old  lady." 


128  WKECKED   IN   POET. 

"  So  you  did,  Jib,"  says  Griggs,  staring. 

"  I  'm  glad  she  looks  so  comfortable,"  says  Jib,  smiling 
round  the  shed.  "  But  I  think  you  'd  better  take  her  where 
it 's  a  little  warmer,  Cap'n,  when  she  can  be  moved.  I  told 
you  I  'd  hold  on,  Griggs  !  " 

Folks  say  he  sits  saying  that  now,  to  this  very  day,  '*  I 
held  on,  Cap'n  Griggs  !  I  told  you  I  'd  hold  on  !  "  over 
and  over  to  himself,  and  always  smiling  round. 

Sometimes,  when  I  'm  lying  off  here  at  the  harbor's 
throat  on  a  quiet  day,  I  wonder  whether  it  is  n't  better  to  be 
Jib  Hancko  —  in  a  mad-house  —  holding  on  and  smiling 
round,  than  it  is  to  be  me  or  you,  sir,  or  the  most  of  folks 
that  I  'm  acquainted  with.  When  I  'm  out  here  by  myself, 
with  the  great  sea  calm  below  me,  and  the  great  sky  still 
above  me,  I  sometimes  think  it  is,  sir  ;  I  think  it  is  with  all 
my  heart.  But  when  I  get  home  to  my  wife  and  sit  down 
of  an  evening,  I  ain't  so  sure,  and  so  it  goes. 


RUNNING  THE   RISK. 


"  THERE  !  Is  the  pillow  put  to  suit  you  ?  Let  me  draw 
the  shoulder-robe  a  little  closer  to  your  chin.  This  is  cold 
for  Florida.  The  room  is  chilly  as  a  capricious  heart.  Not 
a  little  blaze  ?  You  never  would  have  a  fire,  you  know, 
Jane.  The  same  old  girl  to  sit  freezing  at  forty  as  at 
seventeen !  It  was  always  I  who  got  the  old  air-tight  red 
hot.  And  do  you  remember  how  Madame  shook  me  the 
day  I  set  the  music-room  on  fire  ? 

"  Let  me  take  your  hair  down,  while  I  talk.  Like  to 
have  it  brushed  as  well  as  ever,  don't  you?  Your  hair 
is  beautiful  as  ever,  Jane.  I  like  it  better  to  be  shining 
gray  than  shining  black  ;  but  it  always  shines.  And  how 
large  and  still  your  eyes  are,  looking  through  it  at  me  while 
I  speak.  Stiller  eyes  than  mine,  dear,  in  spite  of  all. 

"  Jane  Beranger !  When  you  got  my  letter  —  five  years 
ago  last  May  you  got  that  letter  —  I  wonder  what  you 
thought  ? 

"  If  I  could  have  seen  your  eyes  when  you  got  it,  per 
haps  —  but  ah,  well,  well !  You  were  in  Constantinople, 
teaching  little  heathen  something.  I  forget  what.  What 
was  it,  Jane  ?  And  I  was  attending  Shakespeare  Clubs  at 
home.  And  it 's  all  just  as  well  now,  and  better  too. 

"  Speaking  of  the  Shakespeare  Clubs  —  that  was  prin 
cipally  the  matter.  Never  join  a  Shakespeare  Club,  Jane, 
for  any  other  reason  than  the  ice-cream  or  charades.  If 
you  want  literary  companionship,  keep  away. 


130  RUNNING    THE    RISK. 

"  Now  /  wanted  literary  companionship ;  intellectual 
stimulus  ;  interchange  of  original  ideas ;  spur  to  dormant 
energies  ;  mutual  improvement  —  all  that  sort  of  thing.  So 
I  went  to  the  Shakespeare  Club ;  and,  as  I  say,  you  were 
in  Constantinople.  Jane,  shut  your  eyes  a  minute,  and  see 
it  all  again.  Does  it  hurt  you,  dear,  to  go  back  into  the 
old  days  ?  No  ?  I  thought  not.  It  cannot  hurt  you.  And 
it  does  n't  hurt  me  now  ;  so  don't  mind  me.  Let  us  go  back. 
We  must  go  straight  through  it  all,  if  I  am  to  tell  my  story. 
Back  to  that  bleak,  bright,  cruel  winter  morning  when  the 
news  came.  I  cannot  see  the  sun  shine  on  freezing  snow 
now  —  not  even  now  —  without  turning  a  little  sick  and 
chilly  suddenly. 

"  It  was  like  you  to  come  to  me,  Jane ;  even  then.  To 
the  end  of  my  life  I  shall  bless  you  for  it.  It  was  like  you 
to  look  as  you  did.  It  was  like  you  to  speak  as  you  did. 
Often  and  often,  when  I  am  sitting  in  the  sunshine,  singing 
to  my  baby,  suddenly  I  seem  to  hear  you  open  the  door, 
and  come  up  to  me,  and  put  your  hands  out  across  the 
child's  head,  and  say  :  '  Delight,  there  has  been  a.  dreadful 
accident  upon  the  Valley  Road  —  upon  the  business  train ; 
and  Robert  is  dead  and  Greyson  is  dying.'  It  was  like  you 
not  to  make  it  worse  by  one  unnecessary  word.  It  was 

like  you  to  forget  yourself,  my  poor  girl You  're 

right,  Jane.  We  've  had  enough  of  this.  I  've  got  no  more 
to  say. 

"  And  it  was  like  you,  too,  to  go  to  Constantinople,  after 
little  heathen  ;  and  like  me  to  go  to  the  Shakespeare  Club, 
after  literary  companionship.  And  so  one  day  you  got  my 
letter,  saying  that  I  was  going  to  marry  Henry  Davenport. 
I  went  to  the  Shakespeare  Club,  as  I  tell  you,  for  literary 
companionship.  Six  years  were  over. 

"Now,  six  years  teaching  little  heathen  in  Constantinople 
are  not  the  same  thing  with  six  years  at  home,  with  my 
Aunt  Maria  and  the  town  library.  And  then  I  haven't 


RUNNING   THE   ETSK.  131 

your  eyes,  nor  your  shining  hair.  Henry  says  my  hair  is 
soft  and  fine  ;  but  it  does  not  shine.  And  he  says  my  eyes 
are  never  still ;  and  I  suppose  they  never  are. 

"  Now,  in  truth,  you  see,  all  the  story  lies  in  the  fact 
that  Henry  Davenport  thoroughly  loved  me.  There  are  all 
kinds  of  love,  you  know.  Though  how  should  you  know 
in  Constantinople  ?  Do  missionaries  ever  have  love-affairs, 
Jane  ?  There  's  the  first  bit  of  the  old  mischief  I  've  seen 
in  your  eyes  yet.  What  was  he,  Jane  ?  A  widower  ? 
And  was  he  very  black  ?  All  the  missionaries  I  know  are 
so  very  black.  And  did  n't  you  flirt  with  him,  Jane,  one 
bit  ?  Don't  saints  with  shining  hair  and  peaceful  eyes  ever 
flirt  a  little  ?  What !  Not  a  widower  ?  <  A  dear  friend  '  ? 
Jane  Beranger  !  And  —  you  —  did  n't  — 

"  I  give  it  up,  Jane.  I  '11  tell  my  story  without  a  spasm 
of  compunction.  I  '11  fling  my  happiness  in  your  dear  old 
aggravating,  peaceful  face,  without  a  twinge.  1  '11  rub  it  up. 
I  '11  shine  it  up.  I  '11  make  the  most  of  it.  I  '11  wring  your 
prudent  heart  in  the  clinch  of  it  as  hard  as  my  little  Del 
wrung  the  kitty  in  the  washing-machine  yesterday.  '  Dear 
friend  !  very  dear  friend  ! '  and  not  so  very  black,  and  not  a 
widower,  and  you  did  n't !  Jane,  I  'm  ashamed  of  you. 
There ! 

"  There  are,  as  I  was  saying,  all  sorts  of  love.  Now, 
Henry  Davenport  is  not  like  any  other  man  I  ever  knew. 
He  does  n't  know  how  to  be  selfish ;  he  never  did.  And 
when  his  great,  good  heart  took  in  that  poor  little  selfish 
girl,  sitting  in  the  corner  at  the  Shakespeare  Club,  in  her 
black  dress,  he  just  took  her  in  for  once  and  for  all ;  for 
better,  for  worse.  It  did  n't  matter  to  him  what  he  got  from 
her.  It  was  only  what  he  gave  to  her.  It  did  n't  matter 
whether  she  made  him  happy,  if  only  he  could  make  her  less 
unhappy.  He  asked  nothing  from  her.  He  gave  her  all. 

"  I  told  him  I  was  n't  fit  to  make  him  happy,  Jane.  I 
was  as  honest  as  I  could  be.  I  told  him  how  I  loved  Grey- 


132  RUNNING    THE    RISK. 

son  always,  just  the  same.  We  used  to  talk  a  great  deal 
about  Grey  son ;  and  he  used  to  sit  there  and  comfort  me 
for  my  poor  boy's  memory.  You  're  right,  Jane.  I  led 
him  an  awful  life.  I  don't  know  another  man  who  would 
have  borne  it.  Heaven  bless  him  ! 

"  And  so  it  went  on,  and  went  on,  for  a  year  and  a  half 
And  so,  because  he  was  so  patient  with  me  and  so  gentle, 
and  because  he  always  said,  '  I  can  wait,'  so  sadly.  *  You 
will  love  me  some  day,  little  woman.  I  can  wait ; '  and 
because  I  was  so  lonely,  and  so  glad  to  be  cared  for  and 
comforted ;  and  because  I  could  n't  get  much  comfort  out  of 
Grey  son,  you  will  admit,  Jane ;  and  partly  because  I  was 
selfish,  and  mostly  because  I  was  idle,  I  told  Henry  Daven 
port,  at  last,  that  I  would  be  his  wife. 

"  To  my  dying  day  I  shall  never  forget  his  face.  We 
were  standing  in  the  parlor,  by  the  fire-place,  one  on  each 
side  of  the  happy  blaze.  The  lamps  were  not  lighted,  but 
the  light  shot  up  like  an  agony  or  an  ecstasy  when  I  spoke, 
and  made  the  little  space  between  us  glorious  ;  and  out  of 
the  glory  he  stood  and  looked  at  me.  To  my  last  hour  I  can 
never  forget  the  sudden,  sick  sense  that  came  to  me  that  I 
had  done  a  good  man  a  deadly  wrong. 

"  I  did  n't  think  —  I  was  so  tormented  and  buffeted  and 
desperate  —  I  had  not  thought  how  it  could  mean  so  much 
to  him.  But  when  I  had  said  the  solemn  words,  and  when 
I  saw  his  look,  my  heart  misgave  me  and  I  cried  out  that  I 
was  doing  wrong ;  that  I  could  never,  never  make  him 
happy ;  that,  if  he  loved  me  so,  I  could  not  make  him  hap 
py  ;  for  that  I  loved  him  selfishly  and  smally,  and  that  I 
could  not  help  it,  and  that  I  wished  we  had  never  gone 
to  the  Shakespeare  Club  for  literary  companionship ;  and 
that  it  was  all  too  bad,  too  bad  ! 

"  And  then,  Jane  —  well,  I  'm  ashamed  to  tell  of  it,  even 
now.  I  would  n't  have  believed  it  of  myself.  I  would  n't 
have  my  daughter  do  it.  But  I  did.  I  just  ran  across  the 


RUNNING    THE   BISK.  133 

bright  width  of  the  little  quivering  fire,  and  put  my  arms 
about  his  neck  to  say  good-by,  for  I  meant  it  to  be  good- 
by ;  and  he  'd  been  very  good  to  me,  and  I  was  very  lonely. 
And  I  don't  know  how  it  happened  ;  but  I  did  n't  get  away 
again  exactly  as  I  thought  I  should. 

"  <•  Why,  child,'  said  he,  '  you  love  me  ! ' 

"  So  I  thought  about  it,  and  I  told  him  :  No,  I  guessed 
not  much. 

"  <  A  little,  yes,'  said  he. 

"  ;  A  little  bit,  perhaps,'  said  I.     '  But  Greyson  ' — 

"  He  took  my  face  between  his  hands  and  turned  it 
toward  the  light,  just  as  you  turned  my  tea-rose  bud  on  its 
stem,  this  morning,  toward  the  sun. 

"  '  Delight,'  he  said  solemnly,  '  if  you  love  me  enough  to 
be  my  wife,  I  am  not  afraid  of  Greyson.' 

"  So  I  thought  it  over  once  again  ;  and  when  I  had 
thought  it  over  I  said  :  — 

"  '  Must  I  keep  it  from  you  when  I  think  of  Greyson  ? ' 

"  '  God  forbid  ! '  said  he. 

"  '  And  must  I  feel  as  if  it  were  a  thing  to  be  buried  up 
between  us  that  I  loved  Greyson,  and  a  thing  you  're  not 
to  know  or  be  reminded  of  ?  ' 

"  '  God  forbid  ! '  said  he,  again. 

"  '  And  when  I  miss  him,  for  I  shall  always  miss  him, 
Henry,  and  when  I  mourn  a  little,  for  T  shall  always 
mourn  a  little  ;  and  when,  though  I  don't  mean  it  or  want 
it,  I  see  his  face,  for  I  shall  always  see  his  face,  must  I 
make  believe  I  don't,  because  I  married  you  ?  ' 

"  '  God  forbid  ! '  said  Henry  Davenport,  once  more.  '  De 
light,  only  tell  me  about  Greyson,  and  I  am  not  afraid  of 
him.' 

"  Well,  I  did  n't  seem  to  have  anything  to  tell  him  about 
Greyson  just  then,  and  so  I  went  out,  instead,  and  told  Aunt 
Maria  what  had  happened,  that  very  night,  as  if  to  make 
it  sure  ;  for  I  'd  as  lief  have  been  married  as  tell  Aunt 


134  RUNNING   THE   RISK. 

Maria.  One  was  no  worse  than  another.  And  she  said 
she  was  glad  if  I  'd  done  moping  for  Greyson  Hardy  ;  and, 
if  Mr.  Davenport  stayed  to  supper,  should  she  put  on  quince 
or  jam  ? 

"  And  so,  dear  —  for  I  thought  the  <sooner  it  was  over 
the  better  —  in  three  months  I  married  Henry  Davenport. 
And  we  moved  to  Boston,  after  his  father  died,  and  took 
a  pretty  house  in  Roxbury ;  and  he  went  into  the  shoe-and- 
leather  business,  as  I  wrote  you,  with  Mr.  Jameson.  You 
remember  David  Jameson  ? 

"  I  thought  the  sooner  the  better,  for  I  led  him  such  a 
life.  Could  n't  help  it,  Jane.  Could  n't.  Would  do  just 
the  same  again.  Yes,  I  would.  He  says  those  three  months 
—  well,  no  matter  what  Henry  says  about  those  three 
months. 

"  There  were  weeks  that  I  could  n't  bear  him  to  touch 
my  hand ;  and  sometimes,  when  he  came  in,  I  could  n't  say 
a  word  to  him,  from  trying  not  to  cry,  and  crying,  and  then 
being  ashamed  of  it,  and  then  crying  and  crying  again,  as 
if  my  heart  would  break.  And  then  there  would  come  days 
that  I  was  comforted  and  happy  ;  and  I  would  tell  him  so. 
And  he  would  always  tell  me  that,  if  I  wished  it,  I  was  free 
to  go.  But  I  could  not  wish  it.  Don't  you  see,  Jane? 
For,  in  spite  of  myself,  I  was  as  glad  to  be  cared  for  as  a 
thirsty  anemone  is  of  a  shower. 

"  I  remember  one  day  saying  to  him,  laughing  and  cry 
ing  together  :  '  Henry,  I  wish  you  did  n't  want  me  to  marry 
you.  I  should  like  it  so  much  better  to  be  always  engaged.' 
Girls  are  such  glorious  geese,  Jane.  Henry  will  never  for 
get  that.  When  he  wants  to  be  just  one  shade  more  aggra 
vating  than  usual  —  and,  take  him  at  his  best,  he  's  the 
worst  tease  on  the  American  Continent  —  then  I  have  to 
hear  it  over  :  '  Delight,  I  wish  you  did  n't  want  me  to  marry 
you.  I  should  like  it  so  much  better  to  be  always  en 
gaged.' 


RUNNING   THE   RISK.  135 

"  A  stronger  woman  than  I,  would  n't  have  done  it,  Jane, 
even  then.  A  brave,  well  woman,  with  something  else  to 
do  (I  had  nothing  else  to  do,  Jane.  You  '11  own  that.  And 
that 's  the  trouble  with  girls),  would  never  have  drifted  on 
into  such  a  wicked  thing. 

"  Yes,  Jane  Beranger,  I  mean  exactly  that,  in  plain 
English,  out  and  out.  For  all  everything  has  turned  out 
as  it  has,  and  for  all  I  've  been  blessed  so  much  above  any 
thing  that  I  ever  could  deserve,  I  maintain  that  when  I 
married  Henry  Davenport  I  did  a  wicked  thing.  And,  for 
all,  and  for  all,  and  for  all,  rather  than  see  my  daughter 
live  to  do  that  thing,  I  would  wish  her  laid  in  her  little 
grave,  this  safe,  sweet  morning,  before  my  eyes. 

"  I  did  not  marry  my  husband  because  I  loved  him.  I 
married  him  because  he  loved  me.  And  so  I  wronged  my 
self  ;  and  so  I  wronged  him.  And  so  his  great,  good,  pa 
tient  heart  bore  with  me.  Heaven  bless  him  !  And  so  at 
last  it  all  came  round.  And  I  took  off  my  dear  boy's  ring 
from  my  finger  only  the  night  before  my  wedding-day,  and  I 
cried  over  it  as  if  my  heart  would  break  the  whole  night 
long. 

"  Well,  Jane,  you  need  n't  look  so  unhappy  about  it  now. 
I  don't  want  your  pity,  thank  you,  now.  And  I  wish  that 
black  missionary  were  here,  to  hear  my  story.  Yes,  I  do. 
I  'd  make  it  twice  as  pretty,  if  he  were  only  here,  to  pay 
you  for  that  look. 

"  Jane,  it  is  n't  when  people  are  new  to  each  other  that 
they  can  guess  whether  they  are  meant  for  one  another. 
It  is  only  when  the  soul  you  love  has  become  an  old  story, 
that  you  can  guess  whether  it  is  for  you  a  true  story. 

"  Few  women,  I  belreve,  would  have  so  little  to  discover 
in  a  husband  as  I  had  to  discover  in  mine  ;  and  yet,  Jane, 
when  I  had  been  married  three  months,  I  was  a  wretched 
woman. 

"  It  was  n't  because  he  neglected  me ;  for  he  could  not 


136  RUNNING    THE    RISK. 

do  that.  My  husband  is  not  so  made  up.  It  was  not  be 
cause  he  was  cross.  We  had  been  married  twice  that  time 
before  he  ever  spoke  a  quick  word  to  me.  It  was  just  be 
cause  I  did  not  love  him. 

"  Love  is  a  great  idealizer,  Jane.  It  lights  up  a  charac 
ter,  and  softens  its  outlines,  and  sweetens  its  shadows,  and 
makes  it  more  a  fancy  than  a  fact. 

"  Now,  make  the  best  you  may  of  it,  married  life  is  a 
state  where  people  must  idealize  each  other  to  get  along  at 
all. 

"  It  is  so  vividly,  continuously,  terribly  real ! 

"  Put  yourself  where  you  are  morally  certain  to  see  the 
worst  and  weakest  side  of  a  nature  dear  to  you,  and,  if  you 
do  not  take  with  you  a  determination  to  believe  in  its  best 
and  strongest  —  to  believe  through  wear  and  tear,  thick  and 
thin,  good  or  evil,  life  and  death  —  a  fig  for  your  happi 
ness  ! 

"  Marriage  brings  to  the  surface  of  character  all  the 
smallness,  all  the  selfishness,  all  the  roughness,  all  the 
meanness  there  is  in  it ;  and,  if  people  do  not  hold  sweet, 
serene,  and  steady  as  the  rising  sun,  to  faith  in  each  other's 
largeness,  generousness,  fineness,  nobleness  —  that !  for  their 
peace  of  mind ! 

"  Perhaps  a  woman  feels  these  things  a  little  differently. 
I  don't  know.  Marriage  makes  such  unmixed  prose  of  a 
man  !  His  wife  must  make  him  poetry,  if  she  would  tolerate 
him.  Don't  arch  your  beautiful  eyebrows  at  me,  Jane. 
The  words  are  none  too  strong.  I  'm  not  romantic,  you 
know  —  never  was  ;  but  that 's  the  way  it  strikes  me.  And 
what  should  you  know  about  it  ?  Death  is  the  falsest  and 
sweetest  idealizer  that  we  know. 

"  Now  you  see  I  did  not  love  Henry  Davenport,  and  so  I 
saw  him  all  the  wrong  way. 

"  If  he  took  a  nap  after  dinner,  when  I  was  n't  sleepy,  I 
sat  and  thought  how  ugly  he  looked.  If  he  wanted  to  talk 


RUNNING   THE   BISK.  137 

when  I  was  sleepy,  I  thought  how  inconsiderate  he  was. 
If  he  criticised  the  coffee,  I  wished  I  had  n't  been  married. 
Henry  is  never  cross  —  he  does  n't  know  how  to  be  cross  ; 
never  scolds,  never  sulks.  But  sometimes  he  would  speak 
quickly,  being  a  nervous  man.  Then  I  thought  my  heart 
would  break.  Once  I  remember  he  came  home  and  found 
me  sitting  in  a  draught,  with  an  epidemic  influenza ;  and  it 
was  when  they  were  bothered  about  my  lungs.  He  came 
in,  and  just  said  :  '  Delight,  how  could  you  be  so  careless  ? 
I  can't  understand  it ! '  And  I  went  off  up-stairs  in  the 
cold  and  cried  an  hour. 

"  I  remember  coming  down  that  night,  and  finding  him 
sitting  alone  by  the  parlor-grate.  He  had  a  book  in  his 
hand  ;  but  he  was  not  reading.  He  had  laid  his  head  back 
against  the  chair  and  his  eyes  were  shut.  He  looked  so 
tired  that  a  woman  might  have  loved  him  just  for  sorrow. 

"  I  went  up  to  him,  and  just  put  out  my  hand  and  touched 
his  forehead.  I  felt  so  sorry  for  him  and  for  myself. 

"  I  said  :  l  Poor  boy  !     My  poor  boy  ! ' 

"  Now  I  had  never  called  him  that  before.  It  was  not 
he  who  had  been  my  poor  boy.  And  all  his  face  changed, 
as  if  I  had  let  in  sudden  light  upon  it.  And  he  turned  and 
caught  me  in  his  arms  before  I  could  think  or  breathe. 

"  But  I  got  down  from  his  lap  presently,  and  crept  away. 
For  I  did  not  love  him.  It  was  only  sorrow.  And  he  was 
my  husband,  and  I  thought  our  hearts  would  break. 

"  And  so  it  went  on,  Jane,  and  went  on.  And  how  it 
was,  I  cannot  say  ;  and  what  it  was,  I  cannot  tell  you.  And 
the  forms  my  misery  took,  it  seems  a  wickedness  even  to 
remember  now.  And  the  most  that  I  can  say  is :  My 
daughter  shall  never  do  it  —  never,  never,  never ! 

"  Once,  I  remember,  on  a  rainy  evening,  he  came  home 
late.  I  stood  at  the  window,  watching  him  splash  through 
the  little  puddles  of  water  on  the  garden-walk.  He  had 
on.  his  rubber  boots  and  that  old  cap,  that  makes  him  look 


138  RUNNING   THE  BISK. 

so.  lie  stoops,  you  know,  and  is  awkward  as  he  walks. 
Everything  had  gone  wrong  that  day.  The  cook  was  sick ; 
the  furnace-fire  had  smoked  ;  I  'd  had  to  get  dinner ;  I  had 
burned  my  hands  ;  my  head  ached  ;  and  I  had  come  across 
some  old  letters  in  trying  to  fix  up  my  bureau-drawers. 

"  My  husband  came  up  the  walk,  nodding  to  me,  through 
the  rain. 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  was,  or  why  it  was,  or  why  it 
should  have  come  to  me  just  then  ;  but  I  sat  and  looked 
at  him  suddenly,  as  if  I  had  never  seen  him  before,  and  I 
thought :  '  I  'm  tied  to  you  for  life  ! ' 

"  My  husband  came  in,  and  took  off  his  wet  things,  then 
into  the  parlor,  stooping  over  my  shoulder,  as  I  sat  by  the 
window,  for  the  kiss  he  always  sought  and  I  always  gave 
when  the  day's  work  was  over.  I  gave  it  partly  because  it 
was  my  duty ;  and  partly  because  I  had  got  into  the  way 
of  it  —  there  's  nothing  you  won't  do,  you  know,  if  you  get 
into  the  way  of  it ;  and  sometimes  because  I  felt  like  it. 
But  at  that  moment  I  could  not  kiss  him,  and  I  drew  back. 
He  turned  white  —  you  know  his  way  when  he  is  much 
moved  —  white  to  the  lips.  He  took  his  hands  from  off  my 
head,  but  very  gently,  Heaven  bless  him !  and  came  and  sat 
down  opposite  me  in  the  little,  low,  cushioned  window- 
seat.  We  had  such  pretty  cushioned  window- seats  in  our 
house  at  Roxbury !  He  sat  down,  and  took  my  hands  in 
both  of  his,  and  began  to  stroke  them,  still  very  gently,  as 
you  would  stroke  an  ailing  child.  But  his  voice,  when  he 
spoke,  was  very  grave,  and  in  his  grave,  good  face  I  saw  a 
look  that  I  had  never  seen  before. 

"  '  Delight,'  he  said,  *  it  has  been  all  too  bad  !  We  have 
made  a  sad  mistake.' 

"Now,  if  you  will  believe  it,  I  didn't  quite  like  that. 
To  be  sure,  it  was  just  what  I  had  been  saying  myself ;  but 
it  was  another  thing  for  him  to  say  it.  I  lifted  up  my  head 
and  asked  him  what  he  meant. 


RUNNING   THE   RISK.  139 

"  '  I  mean,'  said  he,  still  very  solemnly,  '  that  you  and  I 
should  never  have  married  one  another.  It  has  all  been 
wrong.  I  thought  I  could  make  you  happy,  little  woman. 
It  was  all  my  blunder.  I  am  very  sorry.' 

"  Now,  still  I  did  not  like  this  —  I  did  not  like  it  at  all ; 
but  I  did  not  know  exactly  what  to  say.  So  I  told  him 
politely  that  he  was  no  more  to  blame  than  I ;  but  that  I 
agreed  with  him  that  it  was  all  too  bad,  and  that  I  ought 
never  to  have  been  his  wife. 

"  '  I  think  so,  too,'  said  my  husband,  decidedly.  '  No 
woman  ought  to  be  the  wife  of  a  man  she  does  not  thor 
oughly  love.  It  is  only  thorough  love,  Delight,  that  can 
make  marriage  tolerable.' 

"  Tolerable  !  Marriage  tolerable  !  I  lifted  my  foolish, 
frightened  head  a  little  higher. 

"  '  Sir,'  said  I,  '  if  your  marriage  with  me  is  only  toler 
able'  — 

"  My  husband  seemed  to  start  to  speak ;  but  controlled 
himself  by  a  great  effort,  and  sat  for  a  moment  perfectly 
still,  looking  gravely  at  me  across  our  clasped  hands.  It 
was  growing  very  dark  around  us ;  but  I  could  tell  that  ho 
looked  at  me  through  the  dark. 

"  I  think  we  may  have  sat  in  that  way  for  five  minutes. 
The  rain  came  down  on  the  windows  hard  and  fast ;  and 
once  a  dead  leaf  flew  against  the  pane ;  and  once  a  little 
bird,  storm-tossed  and  weak,  brushed  against  the  glass  and 
then  dropped  down.  I  wondered  if  Henry  noticed  these 
little  things  ;  but  I  could  not  tell.  I  noticed  everything, 
as  you  do  at  funerals  or  in  death-rooms.  I  thought  of  the 
old  superstition  about  the  spirits  of  the  dead  coming  back 
in  little  birds  ;  and  I  thought  of  Greyson.  But  he  seemed 
a  great  way  off,  and  cold  and  thin  and  ghostly ;  and  my  hus 
band  sat  there  so  near  me,  and  he  had  loved  me  so  patiently 
and  well,  I  began  to  wish  that  I  had  loved  him  half  as 
patiently,  or  half  as  well.  I  began  to  wish  that  I  had  loved 


140  RUNNING   THE   BISK. 

him  as  I  loved  Grey  son,  once  and  all  and  only.  I  had  half 
a  thought  to  tell  him  so ;  but,  whether  it  was  doubt  or 
pride,  or  whether  because  of  what  he  said  about  our  mar 
riage  being  tolerable,  —  I  did  not  speak.  And  the  little  bird 
fluttered  away,  chirping  mournfully ;  and  it  grew  dark 
and  darker  ;  and  presently  my  husband  said  :  — 

"  '  Well,  Delight,  we  must  make  the  best  of  it  now.  If 
there  is  to  be  no  happiness  for  you  and  me,  we  must  make 
each  other  as  comfortable  as  we  can.'  We  unclasped  hands 
at  that,  and  he  rose  and  walked  away.  He  did  not  kiss  me 
or  speak  again,  and  I  sat  on  in  the  dark  a  long  time  alone. 

"  It  might  have  been  fancy,  Jane  ;  but  I  fancied  that  my 
husband  began  to  change  to  me  from  that  hour.  It  was  not 
that  he  neglected  me  or  was  unkind  ;  but  there  was  a  cer 
tain  difference  in  him,  which  I  felt,  as  a  sensitive  person 
feels  the  oncoming  of  a  cold  storm  before  the  wind  has 
swung  around,  or  the  barometer  risen. 

"  He  was  polite  to  me  —  oh  !  very  polite.  He  never  for 
got  to  open  the  door  for  me  ;  or  to  fix  the  fire  for  me  ;  or 
to  run  up-stairs  for  me,  if  somebody  must  run  up  ;  or  to 
hand  me  the  newspaper  first ;  or  to  tell  me  if  the  pudding 
were  to  his  liking ;  or  to  cut  the  leaves  of  my  magazine. 
He  remembered  the  book  that  I  asked  for  from  the  Athe 
naeum  ;  he  shawled  me  carefully  for  a  party ;  he  buttoned 
my  gloves  and  boots  ;  he  helped  me,  as  he  used  to  help  me, 
hold  the  braids  up  while  I  did  my  hair.  But  by  and  by  I 
noticed  that  a  certain  little  kiss  —  a  little  silly  kiss  —  I  used 
to  get  while  the  front  braid  went  up,  was  wanting  ;  and  other 
little  silly  things  that  happened  when  the  gloves  and  boots 
went  on,  were  missing  too  ;  and  the  book  was  left  upon  the 
table,  not  upon  my  lap  ;  and  the  door  was  opened  without 
a  smile ;  and  in  this  way  and  that,  by  little  and  little,  I  be 
gun  to  understand  a  dreadful  thing. 

"  I  began  to  understand  at  last,  Jane,  that  my  husband's 
love  for  me  was  wearing  out. 


RUNNING    THE   BISK.  141 

"  Now,  I  had  never  thought  of  that.  I  had  never  thought 
that  such  a  thing  could  be.  I  had  taken  his  love,  as  we  take 
God's  sunshine,  just  as  a  settled,  sure,  and  common  thing  — 
so  settled  and  so  sure  that  we  never  think  to  care  about  it ; 
so  common  that  we  cannot  prize  it  till  it  is  gone.  I  had 
played  with  it,  neglected  it,  slighted  it,  hidden  my  selfish 
face  from  it;  and  yet  I  had  leaned  on  it,  lived  in  it, 
breathed  it,  and  now  I  had  lost  it.  That  was  the  point, 
Jane,  where  my  true  misery  began.  Of  all  the  miserable 
sides  to  my  life,  that  was,  of  all,  the  most  miserable  that  I 
have  ever  known. 

"  At  first  it  was  my  pride  that  was  hurt.  I  would  have 
died  before  my  husband  should  have  known  how  I  felt.  I 
put  on  my  prettiest  dresses  and  my  prettiest  smiles.  I  made 
myself  as  lovely  as  I  knew  how. 

"  One  time,  I  remember,  I  went  to  five  parties  in  a  week. 
I  went  to  everything.  I  was  in  and  out,  up  and  down.  I 
read,  I  walked,  I  drove,  I  sang.  Henry  said  I  was  as  rest 
less  as  a  northeast  wind. 

"  He  was  troubled  about  it,  I  could  see,  for  I  was  not  very 
well  and  I  ought  not  to  have  done  so.  He  asked  me  once 
if  I  could  not  keep  more  quiet.  But  his  tone  was  so  polite 
that  I  could  have  cried  for  grief  and  shame,  and  I  ran  up 
and  paced  the  attic  for  an  hour.  Jane,  he  almost  killed  me 
with  politeness  in  those  days. 

"  Now,  this  was  where  things  were,  when  the  Fire  came. 
Yes,  of  course.  To  Boston  people  there  has  never  been  but 
one  fire  in  the  world.  I  mean  the  fire  of  November,  1872, 
—  November  9th. 

"  You  know  the  shell  of  all  that  happened.  It 's  the 
kernel  I  am  giving  you.  It 's  the  things  I  could  n't  write  in 
letters  to  Constantinople.  Though,  perhaps,  if  I  'd  known 
about  that  black  missionary  —  But  I  did  n't,  don't  you 
see  ? 

"  I  was  lying  on   my  own  bed,  up-stairs,   that  evening, 


142  RUNNING   THE   RISK. 

wondering  why  he  did  n't  come  home,  and  where  the  fire 
was,  for  the  bells  had  bothered  me  for  an  hour  past.  I 
remember  I  lay  alone  a  long  time,  for  I  was  not  well  enough 
to  pace  the  attic.  I  think  I  must  have  been  there  till  nine 
o'clock,  wondering  and  worrying,  before  any  message  came. 

"  Jane,  that  was  the  prettiest  room  !  I  believe  the  only 
thing  I  have  ever  stopped  to  miss  in  Florida  'has  been  that 
old  bedroom  of  mine  in  our  Roxbury  house.  It  was  fur 
nished  in  the  carmine  shades,  and  there  was  peach  tint  on 
the  walls  under  carmine  borders,  and  the  open  grate,  and 
the  soft  cannel  fire.  Henry  used  to  say  the  room  looked 
like  a  great  jewel,  when  he  came  in,  cold  and  wet,  on  a" 
winter's  night.  Our  house  was  pretty  enough  all  over  ;  but 
I  've  never  minded  the  loss  of  anything  since,  but  that  room. 

*^I  was  lying  there,  wretched  enough,  alone,  when  Aunt 
Maria  came  up,  to  say  that  my  husband  would  not  be  at 
home  that  night.  Aunt  Maria  was  making  me  a  visit  just 
then.  My  husband  would  not  be  at  home,  she  said,  till  no 
body  knew  just  when.  She  was  sorry  to  frighten  me,  in 
my  state  of  health ;  but  — 

"  '  But  what  ?  '  I  sat  up  straight  in  bed  and  tossed  the 
eider-down  shoulder-robe  away  like  a  savage,  for  I  felt 
choked. 

"  '  W  —  well,'  said  Aunt  Maria,  '  you  ought  to  know  bet 
ter  than  to  take  on  so,  Delight ;  and  your  husband  said 
particularly  that  I  ought  to  break  it  to  you  gently.  But 
you  know  there  is  an  awful  fire  ;  and  how  can  /  help  it  if 
his  store 's  burned  down,  and  he  's  got  to  stay  out  all  night 
to  keep  the  bonds  in  his  boots.  At  least,  they  say  all  the 
business  men  are  carrying  bonds  in  their  boots  ;  and  I  sup 
pose  you  won't  be  beggars.  Money  '11  come  from  some 
where.  It  always  does  come  from  somewhere,  though 
where  to  mercy  out  of  ashes  I  don't  see.  But  it 's  very  un 
fortunate  for  you,  and  I  think,  myself,  Mr.  Davenport  might 
just  run  home  and  see  how  you  are.' 


BUNNING   THE   KISK.  143 

"  Jane,  for  a  minute  my  pretty  red  room  whirled  round 
and  round  before  my  eyes,  and  seemed  to  deepen  and  flash, 
and  then  break  to  pieces  and  roll  away  in  little,  gorgeous 
sparkles,  as  a  jewel  would  if  struck  and  broken  by  a  ham 
mer's  blow ;  and  for  a  minute  I  seemed  to  see  my  husband 
(but  I  knew  that  it  was  only  seeming)  standing  in  the 
shower  of  fading  color,  with  a  look  he  used  to  wear  some 
times,  when  we  first  were  married  ;  and  I  seemed  to  cry  out 
to  him  (but  I  knew  that  it  was  only  seeming)  :  '  Only  look 
like  that  again,  and  what  can  we  care  for  this  ?  '  And  then 
the  look,  and  the  color,  and  the  cry  died  out  blackly.  And 
I  suppose  it  was  because  I  was  not  well,  for  I  never  fainted 
before  in  my  life  or  since. 

"  When  I  came  to  myself  (for  I  was  ill  all  night)  it  was 
Sunday  morning,  and  the  fire-bells  were  still  ringing. 

"  Aunt  Maria  was  standing  by  me,  with  a  scared  face.  I 
asked  her,  sharply,  if  my  husband  had  come  home.  Yes, 
she  said,  he  had  come  home.  Where  was  he  ?  I  must  go 
to  him.  How  was  he  ?  Was  he  very  tired  ?  Why  did  he 
not  come  to  me  ?  Was  he  sick  ?  '  Aunt  Maria  !  Aunt 
Maria  !  WHAT  has  happened  to  my  husband  ?  This  min 
ute  !  Quick  !  WHAT  ? ' 

"  I  'd  got  up  by  that  time  and  gone  to  the  door.  Feeble 
as  I  was,  I  had  got  to  the  door,  dragging  and  tripping  in  the 
silly  little  eider  quilt,  as  I  staggered  on.  Aunt  Maria  came 
and  planted  herself  directly  in  my  way,  with  the  old  look 
she  used  to  have  when  I  started  for  the  preserve-closet,  and 
she  intercepted  me. 

"  '  Delight  Davenport,'  said  she,  i  you  just  turn  round 
and  go  back  to  your  bed  quicker  than  you  got  off  it ! ' 

"  I  hesitated. 

"  *  If  you  don't  go  this  minute,  I  '11  lock  you  in,'  said 
Aunt  Maria.  I  knew  the  look  and  the  tone.  I  went.  I 
did  n't  dare  to  do  anything  else.  I  went  as  if  I  had  been 
eight,  instead  of  twenty-eight ;  and  Aunt  Maria  picked  up 
the  eider  quilt  and  tucked  me  in. 


144  RUNNING   THE   BISK. 

"  '  And  now'  said  she,  '  since  you  've  done  as  you  're  bid, 
and  since  there  's  never  any  cheating  you,  by  fair  means  or 
foul,  that  I  know  of,  I  may  as  well  out  with  it  first  as  last. 
Your  husband's  store  is  burned  to  the  ground,  and  that 's  the 
long  and  short  of  that.  And  Boston  is  burning  up,  near 
as  I  can  make  it,  and  one  set  of  folks  is  as  badly  off  as  an 
other.  And  that 's  all  I  know  of  that.  And  your  husband 
—  well,  your  husband  '  — 

"  She  missed  it  that  time,  Jane.  She  should  have  been 
quicker.  She  gave  me  too  much  time.  I  just  gave  that 
eider  quilt  such  a  jerk,  that  the  pretty,  soft  red  silk  went 
tearing  down  the  whole  length,  like  a  beautiful  cobweb ; 
and  I  was  out  of  her  hands  and  out  of  the  room  before  the 
old  lady  could  speak  or  cry. 

"  I  don't  clearly  remember  to  this  day  what  room  he  was 
in  or  how  I  got  there.  I  only  know  that  they  had  laid  him 
somewhere  ;  and  that  I  found  him ;  and  that  when  I  saw 
the  blood,  I  thought  he  was  dead. 

"  The  stone  had  struck  him  in  the  face,  across  the  fore 
head,  here,  before  it  hit  the  chest.  The  blood  came  from 
the  little  cut,  but  it  gave  him  a  dreadful  look.  You  re 
member  he  was  trying  to  save  a  fireman,  and  how  the  poor 
fellow  had  ventured  too  long  and  too  far;  and  when  the 
building  fell,  he  went  down  with  it.  Henry  says  to  this  day 
he  sees  in  his  dreams,  sometimes,  that  man  throw  up  his 
arms  above  his  head  and  go  toppling  down  and  crashing  in. 
So  he  sprang  to  warn  him ;  was  a  little  too  late,  too  long, 
too  near.  I  don't  know  exactly  how  it  was,  but  just  like 
him,  Jane.  Himself  the  last  to  think  about  himself.  They 
say  a  dozen  men  sprang  to  warn  him  back.  Just  like  my 
husband,  Heaven  bless  him  ! 

"  The  stone  had  struck  him  in  the  left  lung.  One  of 
those  great  granite  blocks  that  the  Devonshire  Street  stores 
were  built  of.  Mr.  Jameson  managed  to  get  to  him ;  and 
they  contrived  to  get  him  into  a  carriage  and  so  home.  They 
said  he  spoke  but  once  only  on  the  way,  and  that  he  said  :  — 


RUNNING   THE   RISK.  145 

"  '  Gentlemen,  if  you  can  get  me  into  the  house  without 
awaking  my  wife  '  — 

"  And  so  Aunt  Maria  came  panting  in,  at  last.  And 
there,  she  says,  I  sat,  and  which  of  us  was  the  whiter,  no 
tongue  could  say. 

"  '  And  his  head  on  your  lap,  Delight,  and  your  arms 
about  him,  and  you  crying,  crying  on  his  face  enough  to  put 
out  Boston  fire ;  and  all  those  men  there  looking  on.' 

"  Jane,  love  comes  in  such  exquisitely  different  ways  to 
differing  souls.  Sometimes  it  creeps  slowly  after  you,  like 
your  shadow,  always  dogging  you,  never  ahead  of  you, 
never  abreast  of  you,  only  creeping  along,  a  silent,  sure,  and 
sombre  thing,  that  you  only  turn  to  look  at  over  your 
shoulder,  but  never  face  nor  understand.  I  've  seen  people 
whom  love  dogs  just  that  way  through  a  whole  life  long, 
but  never,  never,  overtakes  and  masters.  Do  you  know, 
Jane,  to  me,  that  is  the  saddest  kind  of  life  I  know  ? 

"  Now,  I  believe  it  might  have  been  like  that  between 
Henry  and  me.  I  might  have  gone  on  and  gone  on  to  my 
dying  day,  never  knowing  what  he  was  to  me  —  calling  it 
fondness,  friendship,  intellectual  sympathy,  loneliness,  wifely 
duty  —  I  don't  know  what  not.  I  might  have  gone  on  like 
that,  until  or  unless  something  happened  to  wrench  me  round 
and  make  me  look  my  own  heart  in  the  face. 

"  It  sometimes  needs  a  sudden,  solemn  light  let  in  upon  a 
lurking  love  to  arrest  the  prisoner  by  —  the  light  of  a  great 
pain,  or  a  great  peril,  or  even  a  great  joy.  Heaven  must 
strike  flint  against  the  nature  to  startle  it  into  self-knowl 
edge.  And  the  light  that  I  read  my  love  for  my  own  hus 
band  by  was  the  great  and  terrible  light  of  Boston  Fire. 

"  All  that  day  and  the  next  night,  while  I  hung  over 
him,  thinking  he  would  die,  the  smoke  of  the  burning  city 
ascended  like  the  smoke  of  torment.  I  looked  out  at  it, 
now  and  then,  through  the  drawn  curtains,  in  a  dim,  dazed 
way,  as  a  heart-broken  woman  does,  thinking  very  little  of 
10 


146  RUNNING   THE   RISK. 

all  the  misery  of  all  the  people ;  but  only  of  her  own  little 
stinging  share.  It  was  only  to  me  the  smoke  of  my  torment 
ascending  up  forever  and  ever. 

"  For,  as  I  tell  you,  Jane,  by  that  awful  light  I  read  my 
heart,  at  last.  I  knew,  at  last,  that  the  love  of  my  dead 
lover  had  become  a  faint  and  ghostly  thing  beside  the  living 
love  of  this  living  man.  I  knew,  at  last,  that  I  cared  for 
life  only  that  it  might  be  lived  for  him,  and  feared  death 
only  lest  it  should  part  me  from  him  before  I  had  had  one 
little  chance  to  win  back  to  me  the  patient  heart  which  I 
had  lost. 

"  I  stooped  over  him  now  and  then,  when  he  sank  or 
seemed  to  sink  into  the  dreadful  faints ;  and  it  comforted 
me  a  little  —  when  nobody  was  by  —  to  try  to  tell  him  how 
I  felt,  though  he  could  not  hear  me,  just  because  he  could 
not  hear.  But  all  I  could  think  to  say  was  :  '  Oh,  my 
dear  !  my  dear  !  " 

"  There !  I  might  talk  till  morning  at  this  rate  ;  and 
Henry  will  soon  come  in,  and  wonder  that  I  do  not  go  to 
meet  him.  And  I  know  that  Easter  has  given  the  baby  the 
sugar-bowl,  for  she  has  not.  cried  for  twenty  minutes.  Take 
out  your  watch  and  time  me,  Jane.  I  '11  talk  ten  minutes 
more  and  stop. 

"  Two  months  to  a  day  from  the  great  November  fire,  on 
January  9th,  we  started  for  Florida.  We  started  for  Flor 
ida  sick,  poor,  homesick,  and  alone  ;  and  my  baby  was  to 
come  in  April.  There  are  few  places,  as  you  said  last  night, 
where  you  see  sorrier  sights  than  in  traveling  to  Florida  — 
the  sick  people,  and  the  anxious  people,  and  the  people 
worn  with  watching,  and  the  people  fighting  death.  But  I 
do  not  often  see  in  the  great  hospital  of  this  healing  State 
anybody  that  I  feel  more  sorry  for  than  I  feel  for  our  two 
selves,  in  looking  back. 

"  My  husband  got  up  from  his  injury  a  shattered,  bank 
rupt,  dying  man.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the  hurt,  we  might 


RUNNING   THE  RISK.  147 

have  pulled  through  the  other ;  might  have  set  our  heads 
to  the  wind  —  I  in  my  way  and  he  in  his  —  and  built  our 
fortunes  up  again,  like  many  another  in  that  sad  time.  But 
there  was  the  hurt  in  the  lung,  and  the  cough. 

"  He  came  to  me  one  day  and  stood  behind  my  chair,  and, 
without  looking  or  seeming  to  look  at  me,  slowly  said  :  — 

"  '  Delight,  Dr.  Bowditch  agrees  with  all  the  rest.  He 
orders  me  to  Florida.' 

" '  Then  we  will  go  to  Florida,  Henry.' 

" '  It  is  thought  best,  it  is,  indeed,  thought  necessary, 
that  I  should  go  at  once.' 

"  '  Then,'  said  I,  '  we  will  go  at  once.' 

"  t  And  it  may  be,  Delight,  that,  even  if  the  experiment 
succeeds,  I  must  be  exiled  there  for  life.' 

"  '  Worse  things  might  happen,  Henry.' 

"  *  True.  You  are  right.  But  we  have  left  (since  the 
fire)  just  five  thousand  dollars.  Three  of  that  is  your  own.' 

"  '  Five  thousand  dollars  will  last  a  long  time,'  said  I. 

"  *  And  then  ?  '  said  my  husband. 

"  '  /  'II  take  care  of  the  "  then,"  '  said  I. 

"  'You?' 

"My  husband  came  round  in  front  of  my  chair  and 
smiled.  Not  as  he  used  to  smile ;  but  in  a  reticent,  per 
plexing  way. 

"  I  felt  the  blood  rush  to  my  face,  as  if  I  had  been  a  girl 
cherishing  some  romantic  dream  of  self-sacrifice  for  a  man 
whose  love  she  had  not  won.  My  husband  looked  at  me 
steadily  for  a  moment,  and  then  turned  away. 

"I  drew  myself  up  a  little,  I  dare  say,  and  gravely 
said  :  — 

"  '  I  mean  to  say,  Henry,  that  I  am  not  afraid  of  the 
future,  and  that,  if  my  husband  is  no  longer  able  to  care  for 
me,  it  is  my  duty  to  care  for  him  ;  and  that  we  will  go  to 
Florida,  if  you  please  to  trust  me  so  far,  and  —  take  what 
comes.' 


148  RUNNING   THE  RISK. 

"  He  gravely  thanked  me  for  my  courage  and  considera 
tion  ;  said  that  trouble  was  teaching  us  both  many  lessons  ; 
said  that  he  feared  for  my  health,  starting  on  this  cruel 
risk  just  now ;  thanked  me  once  again  for  my  keen  sense  of 
duty ;  told  me  that  I  encouraged  him  somewhat ;  and  then 
abruptly  left  me. 

"  And  so,  in  January,  with  a  dreary  snow-storm  darkening 
down  upon  us,  and  Aunt  Maria  in  hysterics  at  the  depot,  I 
started  for  Florida,  Jane,  to  fight  for  my  husband's  life  and 
love. 

"  The  first  three  months  I  thought  he  would  die,  in  spite 
of  me.  We  went  to  St.  Augustine,  and  the  salt  air  hurt 
him.  The  next  three  months  I  thought  /  should  die,  in 
spite  of  both  of  us.  Things  went  wrong  with  me,  and  the 
baby  came  too  soon  —  born  the  week  after  we  went  to 
Jacksonville  —  a  little,  miserable,  ailing,  heart-broken  thing. 
And  she  cried !  Oh,  how  that  child  did  cry  !  I  think  the 
nights  I  lay  there  in  our  boarding-house  at  Jacksonville,  too 
weak  to  lift  my  arms,  and  watched  her  father  walk  the  room 
with  her  —  she  was  a  heavy  baby,  and  it  made  him  cough 
—  I  think  those  nights  were  the  deadliest,  darkest  hour  be 
fore  the  dawn.  But  there  never  was  a  minute,  Jane,  that 
I  gave  up  fighting  for  my  husband's  life  and  love. 

"  Nothing  was  said  between  us  all  this  while  of  either 
life  or  love.  For  one  thing,  we  had  too  much  else  to  do, 
perhaps.  Sometimes  he  sat  and  watched  me  with  that  sin 
gularly  reticent  smile,  and  sometimes  it  would  seem  as  if  he 
had  words  to  say  that  he  never  said  ;  but  he  never  spoke  of 
love,  and  what  could  a  woman  do  ?  Though  my  heart  had 
broken,  I  could  not  court  my  husband. 

"  It  ended  in  our  sending  for  Aunt  Maria,  after  all.  It 
ended  in  Aunt  Maria  —  and  the  oranges. 

"  Henry  came  in  one  day,  when  I  was  getting  better,  and 
said,  in  a  careless  way  —  in  that  way  of  his  he  has  when  he 
has  thought  a  great  deal  about  a  thing  and  wants  you  to 


RUNNING   THE   RISK.  149 

think  he  hasn't  —  that  he  had  just  heard  of  a  fine  chance  to 
buy  an  orange-grove  up  the  St.  John's  River ;  and  that,  if 
he  were  a  well  man,  he  'd  half  a  notion  he  should  like  the 
business  and  could  make  it  pay. 

"  You  know  how  a  thing  strikes  a  woman  sometimes, 
Jane,  like  chain-lightning.  All  in  a  minute  that  struck  me. 
I  asked  my  husband  for  the  advertisement  of  the  place,  and 
I  took  it  away  into  the  bedroom  and  shut  myself  up  alone 
with  it  and  the  baby,  and  thought  it  all  over,  and  thought 
it  all  through,  and  came  back,  and  did  n't  say  anything 
about  it  then.  But  after  supper  I  told  him  that  I  thought 
we  had  better  take  the  orange-grove  and  settle  on  the  river. 

"  '  And  who  did  you  say  would  farm  it  ?  '  asked  Henry, 
laughing.  '  The  baby  ?  ' 

"  '  Sir ! '  and  I,  laughing  too,  but  fighting,  as  hard  as  a 
woman  could  fight  who  had  been  kept  awake  by  her  baby 
for  six  nights  running,  to  keep  back  the  tears.  *  Mr.  Daven 
port,  /  will  farm  the  orange-grove  ! ' 

"  It 's  amazing,  Jane,  the  crazy  things  people  will  push 
through  to  success  when  they  're  hard  pressed.  It  is  amaz 
ing  what  you  can  do  when  you  are  fighting  both  for  life  and 
love. 

"  Ridiculous  as  it  looked  at  first,  we  did  it.  We  took  our 
five  thousand,  what  there  was  left  of  it,  and  bought  the 
place.  And  then  we  sent  for  Aunt  Maria,  and  then  we 
went  to  work,  and  here  we  are. 

"  I  always  thought  I  had  a  genius  for  farming  (my  mother 
was  just  so  before  me),  and  I  took  to  it  quicker  than  Henry 
did.  And  when  he  was  too  feeble  to  work  or  think,  I  worked 
and  thought  for  two ;  and  when  he  was  strong  enough  to  be 
about,  we  worked  together,  in  the  blessed,  golden,  healing 
weather.  And  Aunt  Maria  kept  things  straight  about  the 
house  and  child,  when  I  was  called  away — for  it  would 
sometimes  happen  that  I  would  be  called  to  Jacksonville  or 
elsewhere  —  oftener  then  than  now,  when  Henry  is  a  little 
stronger  and  is  so  happy  to  think  that  he  can  go  himself. 


150  EUNNING    THE   EISK. 

"  And,  if  Aunt  Maria  had  n't  died,  and  left  us  her  little 
moneys,  poor  old  lady  !  we  should  have  got  along  ;  only,  I 
dare  say,  with  more  worry  for  the  future,  which  is  some 
thing,  for  the  Lord  has  been  partial  to  our  oranges,  Jane, 
from  first  to  last,  and  you  want  so  "little  in  Florida,  and  last 
year's  fashions  are  just  as  good. 

"  But  no,  I  won't !  You  don't  care  a  fig  for  the  oranges 
or  any  of  that.  What  you  want  to  know  is,  how  people 
make  it  up  when  they  come  to  Florida  to  fight  for  life  and 
love,  and  when  she  w ill  not  court  her  husband,  though  her 
heart  should  break. 

"  Jane,  dear,  it  was  after  we  had  been  in  this  place  a  year. 
The  holidays  were  coming  on.  The  crop  was  in.  The 
splendid  fruit  lay  in  piles,  like  solid  gold,  waiting  to  be 
boxed.  I  had  been  down  to  the  little  wharf,  to  see  about 
the  packing ;  and  because  I  felt  tired,  and  somehow  sad 
dened  and  disheartened,  although  the  crop  was  in,  I  stole 
away  alone  into  the  edge  of  the  forest,  beyond  our  place  — 
just  over  there  where  you  see  the  tall  live-oak  standing  out 
of  the  soft  blue  line  that  the  great  Florida  wilderness  makes 
against  the  sky. 

"  I  had  thrown  myself  down  full  length  into  the  scrub, 
and  flung  my  arms  above  my  head  to  think.  I  had  not  had 
much  time  to  think,  since  we  had  been  in  Florida.  But 
now  because  the  crop  was  in,  and  because  all  went  well 
with  us,  and  because  the  holidays  were  coming  on,  and  be 
cause  it  would  have  been  so  natural  to  be  happy  in  the  holi 
days,  I  threw  my  arms  out,  as  people  throw  them  out  in 
drowning,  just  to  think. 

"  Jane,  now  you  've  seen  the  Florida  wilderness,  you 
know  what  the  thing  is  like.  Look  at  it  from  out  this  win- 

c5 

dow!  See?  The  cruel,  infinite  thing !  7"  was  in  the  Flor 
ida  wilderness.  Lying  there  in  the  scrub,  that  day,  this  was 
all  that  I  could  think.  A  lonely,  comfortless  woman,  who 
had  thrown  away  the  love  of  the  dead,  who  had  thrown 


BUNNING  THE  RISK.  151 

away  the  love  of  the  living,  who  had  breathed  a  year  of  the 
happy  Florida  weather  into  her  hungry  heart  so  near  him, 
jane  —  so  near,  yet  as  far  from  him  as  if  the  world's  wide 
width  were  sprung  between  us.  I  tell  you,  a  solitary,  an 
exhausted  woman  ;  but  she  would  not  court  her  husband  if 
she  died. 

"  He  must  have  been  a  little  anxious  about  me,  I  suppose, 
for  I  had  been  ailing  and  miserable  despite  myself ;  and, 
while  I  lay  there,  face  down,  among  the  wretched  scrub,  he 
came  quietly  up  arid  sat  down  beside  me. 

" '  We  shall  get  the  last  of  the  crop  off  by  the  next  boat, 
I  think,  after  all,  Delight/  he  began,  in  his  ordinary  way. 
But,  suddenly  seeing  my  face,  he  turned. 

"  <  Crying  ?     Delight !     Why,  Delight ! ' 

"  I  wound  my  arms  about  the  scrub  savagely.  I  could 
have  choked  to  death  rather  than  that  he  should  have  seen 
me  cry.  I  besought  him  to  leave  me  and  go  home.  I  be 
sought  him  not  to  speak  to  me  or  touch  me.  But  it  was 
too  late.  It  was  so  long  since  I  had  cried,  and  the  dreadful 
sobs  tore  out. 

"  '  Why,  Delight ! '  he  repeated.  <  Why,  Delight ! '  And 
could  seem  to  say  that  one  word  only  at  first,  over  and 
over  again.  '  Why,  Delight,  come  here  ! ' 

"  Come  there !  I  would  have  gone  into  the  St.  John's 
River  first,  and  so  I  told  him.  *  Come  there,  sir,  indeed  ! 
What  do  you  think  a  woman 's  made  of  ?  Oh  !  go  into  the 
house  and  talk  with  Aunt  Maria  about  your  orange  crop, 
and  leave  me  and  my  wilderness  to  myself,  sir ! ' 

"  '  The  matter  ?  You  don't  know  what's  the  matter  ? 
After  all  I  've  done  for  you,  you  wish  you  could  have  made 
me  happy  ?  I  don't  want  your  gratitude,  I  thank  you,  sir. 
So  long  since  I  've  kissed  you  or  let  you  think  —  and  you 
did  n't  know?  You  might  have  known.  Anybody  but  a  man 
would  know.  Was  I  so  easy  to  win,  Henry  Davenport, 
when  you  were  my  lover,  that  you  think  I  '11  come  courting 
you  now  you  are  my  husband  ? 


152  RUNNING   THE   KISK. 

"  '  I  VI  rather  court  a  lover  than  a  husband,  any  time. 

"  '  Come  there  ?     Come  there  ?     I  tell  you  No  I 

"  '  You  did  n't  know  ?     Did  n't  understand  ? 

"  '  And,  if  I  did  fling  your  love  away,  you  did  n't  suppose 
I  wanted  it  back  again  soon  as  it  was  gone  ?  And  you 
did  n't  know  I  loved  you,  loved  you,  loved  you  all  this 
while  ? 

"  '  -Then  all  I  have  to  say,  Henry  Davenport,  is  :  I  thank 
Heaven  I  was  n't  born  a  stupid  man ! 

"  ;  And  you  may  go  down  to  the  wharf  and  count  your 
oranges.  Yes,  you  may.  And  you  might  have  loved  me 
all  this  while  —  a  little.  Yes,  you  might,  sir.  I  'd  never 
have  treated  you  so,  if  I  'd  been  a  stupid,  heartless  man. 

"  i  Come  there,  sir,  indeed !  Not  if  I  die  in  the  Florida 
wilderness.  Not  a  living  inch.' 

"Well,  Jane,  I  stopped  at  last,  breathless,  hot,  and 
haughty,  all  tears  and  temper  —  stopped  and  looked  at  him 
across  the  little  bush  that  had  swept  between  us.  His  face 
was  very  pale,  but  it  shone  like  the  shining  holiday  weather. 
And  suddenly  a  thought  struck  me,  and  things  took  on  a 
new  color,  and  my  heart  beat  for  the  minute  with  a  hope  as 
wild  and  deep  and  as  rich  as  the  splendid  Florida  sky. 

"  My  husband  gently  put  aside  the  little  bush  and  said  — 
but  did  not  ask  me  to  come  '  there,'  just  then  :  — 

"'Delight,  I  did  not  know.  Upon  my  life,  I  did  not 
guess.  Perhaps  I  have  been  wrong.  I  meant  to  do  the 
best  thing.  I  thought  if  you  thought  I  had  grown  weary  of 
you  —  women  are  like  other  people,  after  all,  even  my  lit 
tle  wife,  Delight  —  I  thought  if  you  thought  I  did  not  love 
you  —  perhaps  —  But  I  could  not  tell  '  — 

"  '  WHAT,  sir  ?  ' 

"  1 1  did  not  mean  to  do  wrong,  I  repeat,'  said  my  hus 
band  ;  but  he  grew  paler  and  paler  as  he  spoke.  '  Perhaps 
it  was  not  fair.  But  I  was  tortured  and  perplexed.  Delight, 


IIUNNING    THE   BISK.  153 

I  love  you,  love  you,  have  always  loved  you.  There  has 
never  been  a  minute  —  Delight,  if  you  won't  come  here, 
look  here  ! ' 

"  Well,  and  so,  you  see,  the  little  bush  was  pushed  away, 
and  —  no,  I  did  n't  '  go '  there,  Jane,  not  even  then  ;  but  I 
was  taken  '  there  '  forever. 

"  So  we  walked  out  of  the  Florida  wilderness  ;  and  out 
into  the  deep-hearted,  throbbing  weather  ;  and  out  upon 
the  little  wharf,  to  see  the  oranges.  But  we  could  not  talk 
of  oranges ;  and  it  was  twilight  when  we  got  into  the  house, 
and  the  perfect,  purple  Florida  night  was  settling  softly  down 
upon  the  world. 

"  The  baby  was  asleep  up-stairs,  in  our  own  room.  Eas 
ter  had  gone  to  get  supper,  and  the  room  was  still.  My 
husband  came  up,  when  I  had  been  there  for  a  little  while 
in  the  dark.  And  when  he  saw  me  kiss  the  child,  he  kissed 
her  too ;  and  when  he  saw  that  I  got  upon  my  knees,  he 
kneeled  down  too ;  and  above  the  baby's  face  we  clasped 
our  hands  and  prayed." 

"  Easter  !     Mr.  Davenport  come  in  ? 

"  Oh,  Henry  !  Are  you  there  ?  Down  directly.  I  Ve 
been  trying  to  find  out  from  Jane  what  the  fashions  were 
in  Constantinople." 


LONG,   LONG  AGO. 


A     TRUE     STORY. 


WHEN  Rachel  Fross  promised  to  marry  Azrael  Graven, 
the  whole  church  militant  rejoiced. 

It  was  so  long  ago,  that  young  people  who  thought  of 
marriage,  considered  first  what  the  church  militant  would 
think. 

It  was  so  long  ago,  that  a  young  man  preparing  for  the 
Gospel  ministry,  was  an  object  of  peculiar  veneration,  and  a 
subject  of  exceptionally  persistent  prayer. 

It  was  so  long  ago,  that  such  a  young  man  was  held  to 
have  sacrificed  this  world  and  the  glory  thereof,  upon  the 
altar  of  his  consecrated  youth,  and  to  have  wrestled  for 
Heaven's  blessing,  as  Jacob  wrestled  of  old  till  daybreak, 
with  a  hidden,  smiling,  favoring  Lord. 

It  was  so  long  ago,  that  such  a  young  man  expected, 
sought,  and  found  a  life  of  much  self-conquest  and  self-de 
nial  —  of  poverty,  of  anxiety,  of  patience,  of  prayer,  of 
honor,  of  peace. 

It  was  so  long  ago,  that  such  a  young  man  excited  the 
supernatural  respect  of  women,  and  induced  in  them  a  de 
votion  resembling  that  in  which  a  Claude,  a  Bossuet,  a  Sa 
vonarola  lived  and  moved  and  had  their  being,  and  were  not, 
for  God  took  them. 

It  was  so  long  ago,  that  the  imagination  of  a,  young  woman 
faltered  before  the  conception  of  a  loftier  lot  than  that  of 
providing  for  the  temporal  and  lower  necessities  of  so  ele 
vated  and  dedicated  a  being. 


LONG,   LONG   AGO.  155 

to. 

It  was  so  long  ago,  that  when  Azrael  Graven  asked  Ra 
chel  Fross  if  she  would  join  with  him  in  the  service  to  which 
he  had  given  his  life  ;  if  she  would  become  his  comforter 
and  assistant  in  the  holy  work ;  if  she  thought  that  it  would 
insure  her  happiness  to  unite  with  him  in  the  bonds  of  mat 
rimony,  which  was  of  God  and  blessed  by  God,  to  this  great 
end  —  it  was  so  long  ago,  that  Rachel  felt  as  if  the  Archan 
gel  Michael  had  stepped  from  heaven  to  earth,  because  he 
had  need  of  her. 

In  fact,  it  was  so  long  ago,  that  people  went  to  church 
with  foot-stoves  :  and  Azrael  Graven  was  carrying  Rachel's 
foot-stove  home  for  her,  after  the  Thursday  evening  confer 
ence  meeting,  when  he  brought  the  subject  of  Michael  so 
vividly  to  her  mind. 

"I  had  not  thought,"  said  Rachel,  trembling  visibly  — 
"  oh  !  Mr.  Graven,  I  had  never  thought  of  that !  " 

"  It  has  weighed  upon  my  rnind,"  said  the  Angel  Michael, 
"  for  a  long  while,  Rachel.  It  has  seemed  to  me  that  the 
Lord,  for  a  long  while,  has  been  leading  my  thoughts  in 
this  direction ;  and  I  have  allowed  myself  to  hope  that  He 
would  lead  yours  in  the  same." 

"  But,  oh  !  Mr.  Graven,"  trembled  Rachel,  once  again, 
"  I  am  not  good  enough.  I  can  never  be  good  enough  to 
be  a  minister's  wife.  I  never  can,  indeed ! " 

Rachel  Fross  was  a  tall  and  stately  woman,  with  pale 
hair,  heavy  upon  her  forehead,  and  grave,  great,  reticent 
eyes.  She  turned  her  head  as  she  spoke,  and  looked  up 
ward  at  the  Angel  Michael  (who  was  rather  tall  himself) 
with  a  motion  such  as  Memnon  might  have  made  in  look 
ing  eastward  for  the  first  flush  of  dawn  which  should  unbind 
the  marble  of  his  lips. 

It  was  not  so  long  ago,  but  that  the  Reverend  Mr.  Graven 
observed  the  motion  and  the  look  with  keen-felt  satisfaction, 
albeit  with  a  dull  sense  that  they  were  both  natural  and  ap 
propriate.  He  shifted  the  foot-stove  on  his  thin,  long  arm, 


156  LONG,    LONG    AGO. 

• 

and,  gravely  lifting  Rachel's  hand,  pressed  it  gravely  to  his 
lips. 

"  There  is  none  that  doeth  good,"  he  answered  her ;  "  no, 
not  one.  We  can  grow  in  grace  together,  Rachel." 

"  Ah !  well,"  said  Rachel,  softly,  "  I  can  try.  I  will  try, 
if  you  would  like  to  have  me,  Mr.  Graven." 

"  I  have  come  to  feel,"  said  the  Reverend  Mr.  Graven, 
speaking  slowly,  and  with  some  suppressed  emotion  upon 
his  thin,  sickly,  abstracted  face,  "  that  my  work  could  not 
be,  could  never  be,  rounded  and  complete  without  you,  Ra 
chel  Fross." 

Now,  it  was  so  long  ago,  that  the  atrocity  of  this  love-scene 
was  perfectly  simple  and  serious  to  its  actors  ;  so  long  ago 
that,  in  spite  of  it,  Azrael  Graven  and  Rachel  Fross,  join 
ing  hands  across  the  foot-stove,  set  from  that  moment  their 
young  feet  in  Eden,  and  heard  the  Lord  of  eternal  Love 
walking  in  the  garden  of  their  hearts  that  day. 

In  fact,  it  was  so  long  ago,  that  a  man's  relative  estimate 
of  himself  and  the  woman  whom  he  loved,  might  be  simply 
preposterous,  and  yet  that  he  might  love  a  woman  very 
much  ;  and  that  a  woman  might  be  so  far  glorified  for  this 
life  by  the  one  fact,  as  never  to  discover  the  other,  till  death 
had  blurred  it  to  a  faint,  untroubling  shade. 

At  all  events,  it  remains,  that  Rachel  Fross  eame  home 
from  Thursday  conference  "  promised  "  to  Azrael  Graven, 
and  that  the  fitness  of  this  event  was  apparent  at  once  and 
forever  to  the  church  and  society  of  Southampton,  in  which 
devout,  dead  Deacon  Fross  had  been  a  "  pillar  "  for  more 
than  thirty  years  ;  and  by  which  Azrael  Graven  was  sup 
ported  in  the  Theological  Seminary  at  Princeton,  with  faith, 
hope,  charity,  and  a  quarterly  allowance  of  one  hundred 
and  five  dollars  and  fifty  cents. 

A  few  grave  calls,  received  in  the  sitting-room  with  her 
mother  knitting  in  the  rocking  chair  beside  the  fire  ;  a  few 
grave  walks  in  the  broad  winter  day,  up  and  down  the 


LONG,    LONG   AGO.  157 

drifted,  watching  streets  ;  a  little  grave  discussion  of  the 
revival  and  the  freshets ;  a  little,  strange,  sweet  chat  of 
common  things,  —  of  a  headache  that  he  had,  of  a  pud 
ding  that  she  made  ;  a  little  awed  listening  to  his  last  new 
sermon,  and  a  little  temper  with  her  mother  for  suggesting 
that  he  change  his  text ;  some  reading  aloud  in  an  evening 
from  Jeremy  Taylor,  or  from  Walter  Scott ;  a  dignified  kiss 
or  two  left  upon  her  forehead  in  the  entry,  with  the  door 
open  ;  a  timid  suggestion  that  she  mend  his  gloves,  and  a 
half  a  night  spent  in  darning  them  to  a  hair-line's  wondrous 
nicety  ;  a  faint,  sweet  sense  of  household  fellowship  when 
he  "stopped  to  tea,"  and  "led  in  prayer"  thereafter;  and 
the  perplexing  presence  of  a  shy,  elusive  pain  at  the  thought 
of  what  Southampton  would  be  like  to-morrow,  when  he  had 
gone,  —  these  things  preceded  Azrael  Graven's  return  to 
the  Seminary  to  complete  his  senior  year. 

It  was  so  long  ago,  that  Rachel  did  not  tell  him  she  should 
miss  him  ;  did  not  say  that  she  should  mourn.  They  talked 
of  the  neighbors,  and  the  news  the  semi-weekly  paper  held ; 
of  the  "  Association,"  which  would  meet  with  Azrael's  aunt, 
across  the  street,  next  week ;  of  the  prayer  that  Deacon  Jud- 
kin  made  on  Sunday ;  of  the  price  of  board  in  Princeton ; 
of  the  best  remedies  for  spring  colds,  and  the  flavor  of  sage- 
tea.  The  young  student  had  a  heavy  cold  upon  his  lungs, 
now  some  weeks  old. 

"You  come  of  a  sickly  stock,"  said  Rachel's  mother. 
"  Your  mother  died  at  thirty,  you  remember;  most  of  the 
Hebbards  I  have  known  (I  mean  the  women)  have.  Then 
there  was  your  poor  father  !  But  your  Grandfather  Graven 
—  they  thought  he  never  would  die.  It 's  a  slender,  switchy 
stock,  Mr.  Graven  ;  may  bend,  may  break.  You  should 
take  good  care  of  yourself.  It 's  a  blood  that  owns  good 
care ;  but  rebels  at  a  slight,  always." 

She  was  a  Bradford  herself  —  Mrs.  Fross  ;  came  as 
straight  and  stiff  as  her  silhouette  over  the  mantel-piece, 


158  LONG,   LONG   AGO. 

from  the  Mayflower.  She  knew  all  about  "  blood  "  and 
"  stock " ;  she  could  apportion  to  any  family  in  town  its 
proper  quantity  and  quality  of  inbred  sin  by  legitimate  in 
heritance  for  such  case  made  and  provided. 

Rachel  stole  out  into  the  entry  after  Azrael  Graven  had 
risen  to  take  his  leave  that  night,  and  waited  for  him  by 
herself. 

k  Thinking  how  long  it  would  be  before  she  saw  his  face 
again,  (how  pale  it  looked,  swimming  before  her  tears 
across  the  half -swung  door  !)  the  sparse  limits  of  her  happi 
ness  suddenly  struck  and  chafed  the  Puritan  girl.  She  fed 
her  love  on  such  scanty  fare  !  She  felt  starved.  A  rapid, 
unreasoning  thought  came  to  her  that  in  some  way  she  was 
wronged  —  and  he.  A  hot  flush  ran  to  her  temples,  and 
under  her  heavy,  pale  hair,  while  she  stood  there,  half  hear 
ing  her  mother  advising  Mr.  Graven  to  put  on  a  mustard 
paste. 

When  the  young  man  came  out  to  find  his  hat,  Rachel 
took  a  sudden  step  and  shut  the  door ;  then,  finding  herself 
quite  alone  with  him,  looked  once  or  twice  about  the  dim, 
still  entry,  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kissed  him 
of  her  own  accord. 

"  Oh !  "  she  said,  "  1  love  you !  "  and  fled,  scarlet  and 
blinded,  out  of  sight. 

The  young  minister  felt  the  world  spin  for  an  instant  be 
neath  his  steady,  consecrated  feet.  He  passed  his  hand  once 
or  twice  over  his  eyes,  coughed,  took  his  hat,  and  walked 
bareheaded  quite  down  the  garden  walk  and  out  into  the 
chill,  spring  night. 

Rachel  had  letters  at  due  intervals.  She  returned  them 
at  corresponding  and  punctilious  distances.  Mr.  Graven 
wrote  of  the  tardy  spring,  of  the  size  of  his  class,  of  the 
somewhat  chilly  outlook  of  his  northeast  room,  of  the  audi 
ence  which  he  had  last  Sabbath,  of  the  great  theological 
professor's  latest  anecdote,  of  a  prospect  of  "  a  call "  in  a 


LONG,   LONG  AGO.  159 

seaboard  village,  of  the  difficulty  which  he  found  in  preach 
ing  with  his  cold  (which  lingered  still)  in  windy  weather,  of 
some  exercises  of  mind  which  he  had  experienced  of  late  in 
prayer. 

Miss  Fross  wrote  of  Mr.  Graven's  cold,  of  the  care  that 
he  should  take,  of  her  pleasure  at  the  prospect  of  the  call, 
of  her  fears  that  the  coast  would  prove  too  severe  a  climate 
for  his  health,  of  her  mother  and  his  aunt,  of  the  "  ex 
change  "  which  they  had  last  week,  of  the  seeds  which  she 
had  sown  in  her  garden  this  year,  of  something  which  had 
pleased  her  in  "Doddridge"  or  in  "Baxter,"  of  Deacon 
Judkin's  fever,  of  a  funeral  or  a  wedding  down  the  street, 
of  the  pleasure  which  she  had  taken  in  his  last  letter,  of  the 
anxiety  once  more  which  she  felt  about  his  health,  and  the 
desire  which  she  experienced  (very  timidly  expressed)  to 
see  his  face  again,  and  judge  from  it  for  herself  exactly  how 
he  was,  and  why  that  cold  hung  on  so  long,  and  if  he  were 
not  in  need  of  rest. 

Mr.  Graven  read  Miss  Fross's  letters,  sometimes  twice, 
with  care  and  pleasure  ;  tied  them  neatly  together  with  red 
tape,  and  laid  them  away  on  file  in  a  pigeon-hole  of  his 
desk,  with  a  volume  of  "  Jewell's  Sermons  "  laid  upon  them 
to  keep  them  quite  safe  and  still. 

Miss  Fross  read  Mr.  Graven's  letters  —  ah  !  well,  she 
read  the  last  one  till  the  next  one  came.  She  wore  them 
out  in  her  pocket ;  she  crumpled  them  with  tears  of  joy  ; 
she  folded  them  in  her  Bible,  and  locked  the  Bible  into  her 
lower  bureau-drawer.  Once  she  pressed  them  hastily  and 
hotly  to  her  lips ;  but  she  was  quite  alone,  and  it  was  mid 
night,  and  Azrael  had  written  "  Dear  Rachel "  in  three 
places  in  a  note  which  came  that  day. 

It  was  quite  in  the  heart  of  the  sultry  summer  that  a  let 
ter  came  which  Rachel  carried  to  her  mother.  It  was  very 
short,  somewhat  wearily  written,  and  ran  like  this  :  — 


160  LONG,   LONG   AGO. 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  — 

"  I  have  excused  myself  from  prayers  this  morning,  for  I 
have  had  a  restless  night,  with  a  racking  and  exhausting 
cough.  I  must  in  some  way  have  taken  a  heavy  chill.  I 
shall  be  in  better  health,  to-day,  I  think.  The  anniversary 
exercises  will  occupy  the  last  week  of  August,  I  understand. 
I  spoke  with  the  senior  professor  this  morning  about  my 
essay,  which  is  in  preparation.  I  should  like  to  be  excused 
from  the  exercises  altogether,  unless  I  find  myself  in  better 
health  before  vacation.  I  mentioned  this  to  the  professor 
this  morning.  He  remarked  that  he  would  consider  what 
was  practicable  and  advisable  in  the  case  ;  and  inquired  if 
I  studied  much  by  candle-ilight,  and  if  I  had  tried  the  reno 
vating  agencies  of  calomel. 

"  My  lecture-bell  rings.  I  will  post  this  communication 
in  its  incomplete  condition,  that  you  may  feel  acquainted 
with  my  state,  and  be  spared  undue  uneasiness.  I  shall  im 
prove  rapidly  with  rest  and  change,  I  feel  no  doubt.  You 
will  please  to  serve  my  respects  to  your  mother,  and  believe 
me  to  be  "  Always  truly  yours, 

"  AZRAEL  GRAVEN." 

Rachel's  mother  read  this  letter,  folded  it  slowly,  read  it 
again,  and  handed  it  back  to  her  daughter. 

"  Well  ?  "  asked  Rachel,  wondering  why  her  mother  did 
not  speak. 

"  Oh!  he  will  do  well  enough  if  he  comes  home,"  said 
Mrs.  Fross.  "  He  ought  to  come  home.  I  think  myself 
he  will,  before  long." 

Mrs.  Fross  was  busy  putting  a  curtain  up  against  the 
parlor  window.  She  spoke  with  her  mouth  full  of  tacks. 
Rachel  listened  to  her  eagerly,  but  her  voice  was  drawn 
through  her  teeth  and  whistled  over  the  tacks.  It  meant 
nothing.  Rachel  made  nothing  of  it,  and  went  away. 

Not  a  week  therefrom,  in  the  middle  of  a  slow,  lifeless 


LONG,   LONG  AGO.  161 

morning,  as  Rachel  stood  in  the  kitchen,  dreamily  coaxing 
a  slow  and  lifeless  bread-cake  into  being,  her  mother  came 
and  called  her  into  the  parlor  in  a  sudden  way,  bidding  her 
sit  down  and  get  cool  for  a  little  while. 

"  I  'm  not  very  warm,"  said  wondering  Rachel.  "  I  'd 
rather  rest  by  and  by,  when  the  cake  is  done." 

"  But  you  'd  better  rest  now,"  said  Mrs.  Fross,  nervously 
walking  around  the  room. 

"  You  'd  better  rest.  The  fact  is,  Mr.  Graven  came  home 
last  night." 

Rachel  rose  impetuously  from  the  chair,  where  she  sat 
by  the  window,  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up,  and  the  sluggish 
breeze  striking  faintly  against  her  flushed  cheeks  and  well 
molded  arms  and  disordered,  beautiful  hair.  She  rose  im 
petuously,  but  sat  slowly  down  again. 

"  He  came  home  with  bleeding  at  the  lungs  ;  and  you 
might  as  well  know  it  first  as  last.  And  I've  got  to  tell 
you  ! "  sobbed  Mrs.  Fross,  sitting  suddenly  down  herself, 
with  her  back  to  her  daughter.  "  And,  Rachel "  —  still  with 
her  back  to  Rachel  —  "  if  I  were  you,  I  'd  rather  know  this 
minute  that  the  doctor  says  it  may  be  quick  consumption, 
and  it  may  be  that  there  's  nothing  in  this  world  to  do  ;  and 
I  'd  rather  my  own  mother  would  tell  me." 

Rachel,  in  the  sluggish  breeze,  her  bared  arms  crossed 
upon  her  calico  cooking-apron,  and  her  falling  hair  blown 
about  her  face,  sat  for  some  moments  perfectly  still.  Her 
mother  did  not  look  at  her.  The  wind  rose  a  little  restlessly, 
and  the  bees  in  the  front  garden,  feasting  on  the  hearts  of 
the  great  crimson  peonies,  hummed  so  loudly  that  it  seemed 
as  if  all  the  world  could  hear  them. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Rachel's  voice,  at  length,  breaking 
dully  against  the  roystering,  lawless  sound,  "  that  he  is  not 
—  able  —  to  come  and  see  me  ?  " 

"  Oh !  my  dear,"  said  her  mother,  "  he  cannot  leave  his 

bed ! " 

11 


162  LONG,   LONG  AGO. 

"  Then  I  will  go  to  him,"  answered  Hachel,  simply. 

She  rose,  and  pulled  her  sleeves  down  and  took  her  apron 
off. 

Mrs.  Fross  put  her  black  hair-cloth  chair  against  the  wall. 
She  shut  the  door  :  she  shook  her  grave,  gray  head. 

"  My  daughter,  you  are  troubled  and  not  quite  yourself, 
or  you  would  think —  it  is  not  suitable  ;  it  is  not  maidenly  ; 
you  cannot  offer  Mr.  Graven  your  services  as  a  nurse,  Ra 
chel." 

"  He  is  to  be  my  husband  !  "  Rachel  cried.  She  felt  her 
brain  whirl ;  all  the  world  grew  dark ;  in  her  mother's 
pained,  uneven  but  unrelenting  voice  all  the  world  —  her 
world,  the  grave,  good,  calm,  virtuous  world —  spoke  out  to 
her.  Clear  through  the  humming  of  the  crazy,  blessed  bees 
among  the  peonies,  the  good  people  whom  she  knew,  Mr. 
Graven's  stately  friends,  the  blurred  vision  of  the  Seminary 
at  Princeton  its  awful  self,  and  worse,  ah !  worse  than  that, 
Azrael's  weak,  fine  voice  came,  cutting  the  two  words  out 
and  welding  them  around  her  :  "  Not  maidenly."  It  seemed 
to  Rachel  Fross  that  chains  could  not  have  held  her  from 
her  lover;  but  those  two  words  fettered  her  fast  to  the 
great  brown  rose  in  the  parlor  carpet  which  sprawled  be 
neath  her  feet.  She  looked  down  at  it  with  a  sudden  hate 
for  the  dull,  false  thing.  Roses  could  not  grow  that  color. 
They  never  had ;  they  never  would  ! 

Pier  thought  followed  this  fancy  in  a  confused  way.  She 
could  not  think  about  Azrael  for  a  moment ;  she  could  not 
understand  ;  the  idea  slipped  away  from  her.  What  did  it 
mean? 

She  wondered  how  long  her  mother  had  been  talking, 
when  at  last  these  words  attracted  her  attention  :  — 

"  And  since  he  is  not  your  husband,  Rachel,  and  since  it 
is  not  becoming  in  a  young  lady  to  think  of  that,  I  do  not  see, 
my  dear,  what  can  be  done.  If  the  Lord  should  will  "  — 

Rachel  started  and  recoiled.     She  cotild  not  talk  about 


LONG,    LONG   AGO.  163 

the  Lord's  will.  Of  course,  it  was  right,  and  great,  and 
o-ood  ;  but  she  could  not  talk  about  it  then. 

She  walked  drearily  and  dizzily  away  ;  and,  not  knowing 
what  else  to  do,  went  back  and  finished  her  bread-cake  by 
herself.  She  noticed  that  she  could  not  hear  the  bees  among 
the  peonies  at  the  kitchen  window. 

Her  mother  had  spoken  the  truth.  Rachel  realized  this 
keenly  enough  as  weeks  dragged  on.  It  would  not  have 
been  "  maidenly."  No  one  in  Southampton  would  have 
thought  it  so.  Mr.  Graven  would  not  think  it  so. 

At  times  a  querulous  hatred  of  the  word  sprang  up  in 
Rachel's  heart.  If  one  were  w^maidenly,  would  the  earth 
spin  on  her  axis  still  ?  What  would  it  be  like  ?  Would  it 
make  so  much  difference  after  Azrael  was  dead  ? 

For  Azrael  must  die.  Rachel  never  questioned  that.  The 
jets  of  hope  that  flashed  about  her  when  people  brought  her 
news  of  feverish,  bright  changes  in  his  failing  strength ;  the 
cheerful  messages  he  sent  her  by  her  mother  — -  that  he  en 
joyed  the  custards  which  she  sent,  that  he  had  passed  a 
quiet  night ;  the  confident,  calm  clinging  which  he  held  him 
self  to  life,  never  touched  the  steady  under-current  of  the 
knowledge  in  her  that  Azrael  would  die. 

It  seems  to  those  of  us  who  have  heard  something  of 
Rachel  Fross's  history,  in  that  summer,  now  so  far  behind 
her  troubled,  strong  young  life,  that  the  fiction  would  fore 
ordain  itself  a  suicide,  which  should  make  so  audacious  an 
attempt  upon  the  courtesy  of  our  credence  as  is  made  by 
this  plain,  true  tale. 

That  Azrael  Graven  should  have  been  suffered  to  die, 
lying  just  across  the  street,  the  windows  of  his  sick-room 
in  sight  from  Rachel's  little  chamber,  without  a  sight  of  his 
promised  wife,  seems  to  us  a  fact  to  smile  at,  till  we  find  our 
eyes  have  filled. 

It  seemed  to  Rachel  hard.  Yet  the  sternly-nurtured 
woman  accepted  her  lot  with  a  certain  calm.  She  felt  it  to 


164  LONG,   LONG  AGO. 

be  inherently  inevitable.  For  the  most  part  she  did  not 
question  it. 

The  Puritan  blood  in  her  veins  ran  with  a  powerful  re 
pression  which  was  not  unlike  repose. 

When  she  sat,  at  dead  of  night,  shivering  at  her  window, 
to  watch  the  sick-light  burning  and  waning  in  Azrael's 
room  ;  when  she  stretched  her  arms  out  to  it  in  the  black, 
chill  air,  thinking  weakly  how  Azrael's  life  was  burning  and 
waning  with  the  tiny  spark  ;  when  she  went  down  into  the 
gray  morning,  waiting  for  a  chance  word  of  the  dying  man's 
condition,  watching  for  a  stir  about  the  house  which  held 
him,  shrinking  when  they  said  "  He  suffers,"  faint  with 
trying  to  thank  God  when  they  said  "  He  rests,"  compelled 
to  exhaust  the  yearning  of  her  exiled  heart  toward  his  in  a 
foolish  jelly  that  she  made  him,  in  a  pale,  proper,  useless 
flower  that  she  sent  - —  she  did  not  think  that  Fate  had  treated 
her  unkindly.  She  said,  "  It  is  the  sovereign  will  of  God." 
Rachel  had  heard  a  great  deal  about  the  sovereignty  of  God : 
not  much  about  his  tenderness.  If  his  awful  Presence  held 
a  rich  compassion  for  a  woman  who  must  be  "  maidenly," 
for  Southampton's  sake,  though  Azrael  lay  dying,  —  it  was 
a  daring  fancy ;  He  had  many  things  to  occupy  his  great 
Eternal  Thought.  How  could  it  be  ? 

Once  her  young  life  rebelled  with  all  its  might  against 
this  Thought. 

It  was  a  rainy  night  and  very  dark.  Azrael  Graven  had 
been  worse  all  day,  in  much  distress  and  weakness.  Her 
mother  had  given  her  to  understand  this  with  some  reluc 
tance^  and  set  her  some  household  task,  Rachel  thought,  to 
avoid  any  further  comment  on  the  fact.  When  this  was 
finished,  Rachel  slipped  away,  and  out  of  the  backdoor, 
into  the  little  dripping  yard.  She  found  the  house  too  strait 
for  her.  She  could  not  breathe.  She  felt  benumbed.  The 
ache  in  her  heart  ran,  an  actual  pain,  all  up  and  down  her 
feverish  young  limbs.  She  threw  her  shawl  over  her  head, 


LONG,    LONG   AGO.  165 

gathered  her  dress-skirt  wrong  side  out  over  her  shoulders 
(she  could  not  afford  to  spoil  it  because  Azrael  was  dying), 
and  so  ran  about  for  a  little  while  in  a  purposeless,  half- 
blind  way,  to  and  fro  over  the  wet  chips  and  rubbish,  with 
the  wind  and  rain  upon  her  face. 

Timidly  and  on  tiptoe  she  wandered  out,  at  last,  into  the 
black,  deserted  street,  and  across  to  AzraeFs  aunt's.  The 
sick-lamp  was  the  only  light  the  house  held,  and  that  burned 
brightly,  striking  a  slender,  long  shaft  of  gold  across  the 
slatted  fence  and  down  upon  the  dripping  grass  and  little 
pools  of  water  in  the  road.  To  Rachel,  skulking  like  a 
criminal  in  the  shadow,  it  looked  like  the  beautiful  ladder 
on  which  of  old  angels  ascended  and  descended  out  of 
heaven.  Her  heart  climbed  up  its  shining  height  with  a 
sudden,  daring,  wifely  sense  of  right  to  turn  the  whole 
world  out,  and  minister  to  Azrael's  meanest  wants.  She 
felt  shut  out  —  down  there  in  the  storm  and  dark  —  like  a 
soul  in  hell. 

A  soul  in  hell  —  or  so  to  Rachel's  excited  and  unnat 
ural  fancy  it  seemed  just  then  —  flitted  past  her  down  the 
street,  while  she  stood  crouching  there  beside  the  slatted 
fence.  The  light  of  the  golden  ladder  which  climbed  to 
Azrael's  room  struck  full  upon  its  haggard  face.  Rachel 
knew  the  face,  and  shrank  ;  she  went  to  school  with  the 
poor  girl  once.  She  was  a  gentle,  pretty  girl.  When  her 
baby  was  born,  the  people  that  she  lived  with  turned  her 
off.  She  had  worked  in  a  shop  since  that,  and  lived  a  decent 
life  enough,  some  said ;  but  no  one  spoke  to  her,  and  the 
baby  died.  Rachel  had  sometimes  wondered,  in  a  shocked, 
dim  way,  what  life  was  like  to  her. 

Now,  as  the  vision  of  her  flitted  by,  a  throb  of  awful  envy 
bounded  in  Rachel's  pure,  young  heart.  This  woman  had 
dared  to  sin  for  love's  sake.  While  she  — 

She  fled  with  her  head  hanging,  her  hands  before  her 
face,  as  if  she  had  been  a  guilty  woman ;  fled  from  the 


166  LONG,    LONG   AGO. 

shining  ladder,  where  the  angels  would  hot  walk  ;  home, 
and  into  a  dark,  still  room,  where  she  dropped  upon  her 
knees. 

It  is  said  that  when  the  early  autumn  chills  came  on, 
upon  a  windless,  moonlit  night,  a  little  after  the  village 
clock  struck  three,  Rachel  Fross  waked  her  mother,  sleep 
ing  by  her  side,  with  an  exceeding  great  and  bitter  cry :  — 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  Azrael  is  dead  !  " 

Something* in  that  cry  chilled  all  the  placid,  proper  Brad 
ford  blood  of  Patience  Fross.  She  sprang  trembling  up. 
The  room  was  lighted  with  a  mellow  light,  like  the  opening 
of  flowers  in  the  sun ;  the  shadows  of  a  partly  leafless  tree 
fell  in  and  lay  motionless  on  the  bed.  Rachel  was  standing 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  in  her  white  night-dress,  with 
the  moonlight  on  her,  full  and  solemn. 

"  You  are  dreaming,  Rachel." 

Mrs.  Fross,  quite  herself  again,  rose  in  the  stately  Brad 
ford  way,  and  drew  her  daughter  back  to  bed. 

"  Mr.  Graven  was  better  this  morning  than  he  has  been 
for  a  week.  You  have  been  dreaming.  Go  to  sleep,  my 
dear,  and  do  not  think  about  it.  It  annoys  me.  Why,  Ra 
chel  !  Why,  Rachel !  " 

Rachel  sat  just  where  her  mother  had  placed  her,  straight 
and  stiff  in  bed.  Her  eyes  looked  straight  before  her  ;  one 
hand  fell  over  the  bed's  edge. 

"  But,  mother,"  she  said,  "  Azrael  is  dead.  Azrael  has 
just  died." 

She  spoke  very  quietly  then,  and  lay  very  quietly  back 
upon  the  pillow. 

The  words  had  scarcely  left  her  lips  before  a  slow,  cold 
horror,  like  a  word,  like  a  cry,  like  a  struggle,  like  nothing 
that  the  two  women  had  ever  heard  in  all  their  lives  before, 
filled  the  earth  and  sky. 

It  was  the  passing  bell  of  the  old  town  church. 

When  it  had  tolled  twenty-nine  times,  Rachel  turned  her 


LONG,   LONG  AGO.  167 

face  wearily  to  the  wall.  Azrael  Graven  was  twenty-nine 
years  old. 

"  But  it  may  be  some  one  else !  "  cried  her  mother, 
snatching  at  a  hope.  Rachel  smiled,  and  said  that  it  was 
no  one  else.  Azrael  was  dead. 

"  I  told  you,  mother,  that  Azrael  was  dead." 

In  the  morning  a  bit  of  crape  hung  from  Azrael  Graven's 
sick-room  window,  which  stood  wide  open  to  the  piercing 
wind. 

About  noon  a  little  crumpled  paper  came  to  Rachel,  with 
two  penciled  words  upon  it,  in  the  young  minister's  stiff 
hand,  very  faintly  put  together  :  "  Dear  Rachel  "  —  That 
was  all.  He  had  tried  to  write,  they  said  ;  but  wandered. 
He  had  spoken  once  or  twice  after  the  moon  rose  in  the 
night,  and  in  a  restless  way  looked  round  him.  "  Tell  Ra 
chel"  -  And  again,  "  Tell  Rachel"-  But  they  could 
not  tell  Rachel,  for  he  said  no  more. 

Rachel  went  to  the  funeral.  She  walked  in  the  procession 
among  "  the  neighbors."  The  mourners,  in  their  crape, 
crisp  grief,  looked  far  off  and  small  to  her.  She  wore  a  blue 
ribbon  and  her  old  plaid  shawl. 

Some  one  lingering  in  the  road  as  the  people  scattered, 
attracted  her  dull  attention.  It  was  the  girl  whom  she  saw 
flitting  by  her  in  the  rain  when  she  was  hiding  by  the  fence 
to  watch  the  light  in  Azrael's  room.  The  girl  turned  upon 
her,  as  she  passed,  an  awed  and  puzzled  look.  It  changed 
after  an  instant's  thought,  into  an  expression  such  as  one 
sees  in  the  eyes  of  a  dumb  animal  whose  compassion  is  pow 
erfully  and  ineffectually  moved. 

Rachel  Fross  did  not  die.  Ah  !  no  ;  not  for  twenty  years. 
Of  her  life  or  of  her  death  one  fact  only  has  been,  beyond 
this,  recorded.  It  is  said  that  in  her  last  hours  she  called 
the  watcher  to  her  bedside,  with  a  singularly  pleasant 
smile,  and  gently  said  :  "  I  have  had  such  a  pleasant  dream. 
I  thought  that  Mr.  Graven  and  I  were  married,  and  that  I 
climbed  a  golden  ladder  to  take  care  of  him  before  he  died." 


SINCE  I  DIED. 


How  very  still  you  sit ! 

If  the  shadow  of  an  eyelash  stirred  upon  your  cheek ;  if 
that  gray  line  about  your  mouth  should  snap  its  tension  at 
this  quivering  end  ;  if  the  pallor  of  your  profile  warmed  a 
little ;  if  that  tiny  muscle  on  your  forehead,  just  at  the  left 
eyebrow's  curve,  should  start  and  twitch  ;  if  you  would  but 
grow  a  trifle  restless,  sitting  there  beneath  my  steady  gaze  ; 
if  you  moved  a  finger  of  your  folded  hands  ;  if  you  should 
turn  and  look  behind  your  chair,  or  lift  your  face,  half  lin 
gering  and  half  longing,  half  loving  and  half  loth,  to  pon 
der  on  the  annoyed  and  thwarted  cry  which  the  wind  is 
making,  where  I  stand  between  it  and  yourself,  against  the 
half-closed  window  —  Ah,  there  !  You  sigh  and  stir,  I 
think.  You  lift  your  head.  The  little  muscle  is  a  captive 
still ;  the  line  about  your  mouth  is  tense  and  hard ;  the 
deepening  hollow  in  your  cheek  has  no  warmer  tint,  I  see, 
than  the  great  Doric  column  which  the  moonlight  builds 
against  the  wall.  I  lean  against  it ;  I  hold  out  my  arms. 

You  lift  your  head  and  look  me  in  the  eye. 

If  a  shudder  crept  across  your  figure  ;  if  your  arms,  laid 
out  upon  the  table,  leaped  but  once  above  your  head ;  if 
you  named  my  name  ;  if  you  held  your  breath  with  terror, 
or  sobbed  aloud  for  love,  or  sprang,  or  cried  — 

But  you  only  lift  your  head  and  look  me  in  the  eye. 

If  I  dared  step  near,  or  nearer ;  if  it  were  Permitted  that 
I  should  cross  the  current  of  your  living  breath  ;  if  it  were 
Willed  that  I  should  feel  the  leap  of  human  blood  within 


SINCE   I   DIED.  169 

your  veins  ;  if  I  should  touch  your  hands,  your  cheeks, 
your  lips  ;  if  I  dropped  an  arm  as  lightly  as  a  snow-flake 
round  your  shoulder  — 

The  fear  which  no  heart  has  fathomed,  the  fate  which  no 
fancy  has  faced,  the  riddle  which  no  soul  has  read,  steps  be- 
.tween  your  substance  and  my  soul. 

I  drop  my  arms.  I  sink  into  the  heart  of  the  pillared 
light  upon  the  wall.  I  will  not  wonder  what  would  happen 
if  my  outline  were  defined  upon  it  to  your  view.  I  will 
not  think  of  that  which  could  be,  would  be,  if  I  struck 
across  your  vision,  face  to  face. 

Ah  me,  how  still  she  sits  !  With  what  a  fixed,  incurious 
stare  she  looks  me  in  the  eye  ! 

The  wind,  now  that  I  stand  no  longer  between  it  and 
yourself,  comes  enviously  in.  It  lifts  the  curtain,  and  whirls 
about  the-  room.  It  bruises  the  surface  of  the  great  pearled 
pillar  where  I  lean.  I  am  caught  within  it.  Speech  and 
language  struggle  over  me.  Mute  articulations  fill  the  air. 
Tears  and  laughter,  and  the  sounding  of  soft  lips,  and  the 
falling  of  low  cries,  possess  me.  Will  she  listen  ?  Will  she 
bend  her  head  ?  Will  her  lips  part  in  recognition  ?  Is  there 
an  alphabet  between  us  ?  Or  have  the  winds  of  night  a  vo 
cabulary  to  lift  before  her  holden  eyes  ? 

We  sat  many  times  together,  and  talked  of  this.  Do  you 
remember,  dear  ?  You  held  my  hand.  Tears  that  1  could 
not  see,  fell  on  it ;  we  sat  by  the  great  hall-window  up-stairs, 
where  the  maple  shadow  goes  to  sleep,  face  down  across  the 
floor,  upon  a  lighted  night ;  the  old  green  curtain  waved  its 
hands  upon  us  like  a  mesmerist,  I  thought ;  like  a  priest, 
you  said. 

"  When  we  are  parted,  you  shall  go,"  you  said ;  and 
when  I  shook  my  head  you  smiled  —  you  always  smiled 
when  you  said  that,  but  you  said  it  always  quite  the  same. 

I  think  I  hardly  understood  you  then.  Now  that  I  hold 
your  eyes  in  mine,  and  you  see  me  not ;  now  when  I  stretch 


170  SINCE   I  DIED. 

my  hand  and  you  touch  me  not ;  now  that  I  cry  your 
name,  and  you  hear  it  not,  —  I  comprehend  you,  tender 
one  !  A  wisdom  not  of  earth  was  in  your  words.  "•  To 
live,  is  dying;  I  will  die.  To  die  is  life,  and  you  shall 
live." 

Now  when  the  fever  turned,  I  thought  of  this. 

That  must  have  been  —  ah !  how  long  ago  ?  I  miss  the 
conception  of  that  for  which  how  long  stands  index. 

Yet  I  perfectly  remember  that  I  perfectly  understood  it 
to  be  at  three  o'clock  on  a  rainy  Sunday  morning  that  1 
died.  Your  little  watch  stood  in  its  case  of  olive-wood  upon 
the  table,  and  drops  were  on  the  window.  I  noticed  both, 
though  you  did  not  know  it.  I  see  the  watch  now,  in  your 
pocket ;  I  cannot  tell  if  the  hands  move,  or  only  pulsate 
like  a  heart-throb,  to  and  fro  ;  they  stand  and  point,  mute 
golden  fingers,  paralyzed  and  pleading,  forever  at  ihe  hour 
of  three.  At  this  I  wonder. 

When  first  you  said  I  "was  sinking  fast,"  the  words 
sounded  as  old  and  familiar  as  a  nursery  tale.  I  heard  you 
in  the  hall.  The  doctor  had  just  left,  and  you  went  to 
mother  and  took  her  face  in  your  two  arms,  and  laid  your 
hand  across  her  mouth,  as  if  it  were  she  who  had  spoken. 
She  cried  out  and  threw  up  her  thin  old  hands  ;  but  you 
stood  as  still  as  Eternity.  Then  I  thought  again :  "  It  is 
she  who  dies  ;  I  shall  live." 

So  often  and  so  anxiously  we  have  talked  of  this  thing 
called  death,  that  now  that  it  is  all  over  between  us,  I  can 
not  understand  why  we  found  in  it  such  a  source  of  dis 
tress.  It  bewilders  me.  I  am  often  bewildered  here. 
Things  and  the  fancies  of  things  possess  a  relation  which  as 
yet  is  new  and  strange  to  me.  Here  is  a  mystery. 

Now,  in  truth,  it  seems  a  simple  matter  for  me  to  tell  you 
how  it  has  been  with  me  since  your  lips  last  touched  me, 
and  your  arms  held  me  to  the  vanishing  air. 

Oh,  drawn,  pale  lips  !    Nerveless,  dropping  arms !    I  told 


SINCE   I   DIED.  171 

you  I  would  come.  Did  ever  promise  fail  I  spoke  to  you  ? 
"  Come  and  show  me  Death,"  you  said.  I  have  come  to 
show  you  Death.  I  could  show  you  the  fairest  sight  and 
sweetest,  that  ever  blessed  your  eyes.  Why,  look !  Is  it 
not  fair  ?  Am  I  terrible  ?  Do  you  shrink  or  shiver  ? 
Would  you  turn  from  me,  or  hide  your  strained,  expectant 
face  ? 

Would  she  ?     Does  she  ?     Will  she  ?  - 

Ah,  how  the  room  widened !  I  could  tell  you  that.  It 
grew  great  and  luminous  day  by  day.  At  night  the  walls 
throbbed  ;  lights  of  rose  ran  round  them,  and  blue  fire,  and 
a  tracery  as  of  the  shadows  of  little  leaves.  As  the  walls 
expanded,  the  air  fled.  But  I  tried  to  tell  you  how  little 
pain  I  knew  or  feared.  Your  haggard  face  bent  over  me. 
I  could  not  speak ;  when  I  would,  I  struggled,  and  you  said 
"  She  suffers  !  "  Dear,  it  was  so  very  little  ! 

Listen,  till  I  tell  you  how  that  night  came  on.  The  sun 
fell,  and  the  dew  slid  down.  It  seemed  to  me  that  it  slid 
into  my  heart,  but  still  I  felt  no  pain.  Where  the  walls 
pulsed  and  receded,  the  hills  came  in.  Where  the  old  bu 
reau  stood,  above  the  glass,  I  saw  a  single  mountain  with  a 
face  of  fire,  and  purple  hair.  I  tried  to  tell  you  this,  but 
you  said  :  "  She  wanders."  I  laughed  in  my  heart  at  that, 
for  it  was  such  a  blessed  wandering !  As  the  night  locked 
the  sun  below  the  mountain's  solemn,  watching  face,  the 
Gates  of  Space  were  lifted  up  before  me ;  the  everlasting 
doors  of  Matter  swung  for  me  upon  their  rusty  hinges,  and 
the  King  of  Glories  entered  in  and  out.  All  the  kingdoms 
of  the  earth,  and  the  power  of  them,  beckoned  to  me,  across 
the  mist  my  failing  senses  made,  —  ruins  and  roses,  and  the 
brows  of  Jura  and  the  singing  of  the  Rhine ;  a  shaft  of  red 
light  on  the  Sphinx's  smile,  and  caravans  in  sand-storms, 
and  an  icy  wind  at  sea,  and  gold  in  mines  that  no  man 
knew,  and  mothers  sitting  at  their  doors  in  valleys  sing 
ing  babes  to  sleep,  and  women  in  dank  cellars  selling  souls 


172  SINCE   I   DIED. 

for  bread,  and  the  whir  of  wheels  in  giant  factories,  and  a 
single  prayer  somewhere-  in  a  den  of  death,  —  I  could  not 
find  it,  though  I  searched,  —  and  the  smoke  of  battle,  and 
broken  music,  and  a  sense  of  lilies  alone  beside  a  stream  at 
the  rising  of  the  sun  —  and,  at  last,  your  face,  dear,  all 
alone. 

I  discovered  then,  that  the  walls  and  roof  of  the  room 
had  vanished  quite.  The  night-wind  blew  in.  The  maple 
in  the  yard  almost  brushed  my  cheek.  Stars  were  about 
me,  and  I  thought  the  rain  had  stopped,  yet  seemed  to  hear 
it,  upon  the  seeming  of  a  window  which  I  could  not  find. 

One  thing  only  hung  between  me  and  immensity.  It 
was  your  single,  awful,  haggard  face.  I  looked  my  last 
into  your  eyes.  Stronger  than  death,  they  held  and  claimed 
my  soul.  I  feebly  raised  my  hand  to  find  your  own.  More 
cruel  than  the  grave,  your  wild  grasp  chained  me.  Then  I 
struggled,  and  you  cried  out,  and  your  face  slipped,  and  I 
stood  free. 

I  stood  upon  the  floor,  beside  the  bed.  That  which  had 
been  I,  lay  there  at  rest,  but  terrible,  before  me.  You  hid 
your  face,  and  I  saw  you  slide  upon  your  knees.  I  laid  my 
hand  upon  your  head ;  you  did  not  stir ;  I  spoke  to  you : 
"  Dear,  look  around  a  minute  !  "  but  you  knelt  quite  still. 
I  walked  to  and  fro  about  the  room,  and  meeting  my  mother, 
touched  her  on  the  elbow;  she  only  said,  "She's  gonef" 
and  sobbed  aloud.  "  I  have  not  gone!"  I  cried;  but  she 
sat  sobbing  on. 

The  walls  of  the  room  had  settled  now,  and  the  ceiling 
stood  in  its  solid  place.  The  window  was  shut,  but  the  door 
stood  open.  Suddenly  I  was  restless,  and  I  ran. 

I  brushed  you  in  hurrying  by,  and  hit  the  little  light- 
stand  where  the  tumblers  stood ;  I  looked  to  see  if  it  would 
fall,  but  it  only  shivered  as  if  a  breath  of  wind  had  struck 
it  once. 

But  I  was  restless,  and  I  ran.     In  the  hall  I  met  the 


SINCE   I   DIED.  173 

doctor.  This  amused  me,  and  I  stopped  to  think  it  over. 
"  Ah,  Doctor,"  said  I,  "  you  need  not  trouble  yourself  to 
go  up.  I'm  quite  well  to-night,  you  see."  But  he  made 
me  no  answer  ;  he  gave  me  no  glance  ;  he  hung  up  his  hat, 
and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  banister  against  which  I  leaned, 
and  went  ponderously  up. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  nearly  reached  the  landing  that 
it  occurred  to  me,  still  leaning  on  the  banister,  that  his 
heavy  arm  must  have  swept  against  and  through  me,  where 
I  stood  against  the  oaken  moldings  which  he  grasped. 

I  saw  his  feet  fall  on  the  stairs  above  me  ;  but  they  made 
no  sound  which  reached  my  ear.  "  You  '11  not  disturb  me 
now  with  your  big  boots,  sir,"  said  I,  nodding;  "never 
fear  ! " 

But  he  disappeared  from  sight  above  me,  and  still  I  heard 
no  sound. 

Now  the  doctor  had  left  the  front  door  unlatched. 

As  I  touched  it,  it  blew  open  wide,  and  solemnly.  I 
passed  out  and  down  the  steps.  I  could  see  that  it  was 
chilly,  yet  I  felt  no  chill.  Frost  was  on  the  grass,  and  in 
the  east  a  pallid  streak,  like  the  cheek  of  one  who  had 
watched  all  night.  The  flowers  in  the  little  square  plots 
hung  their  heads  and  drew  their  shoulders  up ;  there  was 
a  lonely,  late  lily  which  I  broke  and  gathered  to  my  heart, 
where  I  breathed  upon  it,  and  it  warmed  and  looked  me 
kindly  in  the  eye.  This,  I  remember,  gave  me  pleasure. 
I  wandered  in  and  out  about  the  garden  in  the  scattering 
rain ;  my  feet  left  no  trace  upon  the  dripping  grass,  and 
I  saw  with  interest  that  the  garment  which  I  wore,  gathered 
no  moisture  and  no  cold.  I  sat  musing  for  a  while  upon 
the  piazza,  in  the  garden-chair,  not  caring  to  go  in.  It  was 
so  many  months  since  I  had  felt  able  to  sit  upon  the  piazza 
in  the  open  air.  "  By  and  by,"  I  thought,  I  would  go  in 
and  up-stairs  to  see  you  once  again.  The  curtains  were 
drawn  from  the  parlor  windows  and  I  passed  and  repassed, 
looking  in. 


174  SINCE  I   DIED. 

All  this  while  the  cheek  of  the  east  was  warming,  and 
the  air  gathering  faint  heats  and  lights  about  me.  I  re 
membered,  presently,  the  old  arbor  at  the  garden-foot, 
where,  before  I  was  sick,  we  sat  so  much  together ;  and 
thinking,  "  She  will  be  surprised  to  know  that  I  have  been 
down  alone,"  I  was  restless,  and  I  ran  again. 

I  meant  to  come  back  and  see  you,  dear,  once  more.  I 
saw  the  lights  in  the  room  where  I  had  lain  sick,  overhead ; 
and  your  shadow  on  the  curtain  ;  and  I  blessed  it  with  all 
the  love  of  life  and  death,  as  I  bounded  by. 

The  air  was  thick  with  sweetness  from  the  dying  flowers. 
The  birds  woke,  and  the  zenith  lighted,  and  the  leap  of 
health  was  in  my  limbs.  The  old  arbor  held  out  its  soft 
arms  to  me  — but  I  was  restless,  and  I  ran. 

The  field  opened  before  me,  and  meadows  with  broad 
bosoms,  and  a  river  flashed  before  me  like  a  scimitar,  and 
woods  interlocked  their  hands  to  stay  me  —  but  being  rest 
less,  on  I  ran. 

The  house  dwindled  behind  me  ;  and  the  light  in  my 
sick-room,  and  your  shadow  on  the  curtain.  But  yet  I  was 
restless,  and  I  ran. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  I  fell  into  a  solitary  place. 
Sand  and  rocks  were  in  it,  and  a  falling  wind.  I  paused, 
and  knelt  upon  the  sand,  and  mused  a  little  in  this  place. 
I  mused  of  you,  and  life  and  death,  and  love  and  agony  ;  — 
but  these  had  departed  from  me,  as  dim  and  distant  as  the 
fainting  wind.  A  sense  of  solemn  expectation  filled  the 
air.  A  tremor  and  a  trouble  wrapped  my  soul. 

"  I  must  be  dead  !  "  I  said  aloud.  I  had  no  sooner  spoken 
than  I  learned  that  I  was  not  alone. 

The  sun  had  risen,  and  on  a  ledge  of  ancient  rock, 
weather-stained  and  red,  there  had  fallen  over  against  me 
the  outline  of  a  Presence  lifted  up  against  the  sky  ;  and 
turning  suddenly,  I  saw  .... 

Lawful  to  utter,  but  utterance  has  fled !    Lawful  to  utter, 


SINCE   I   DIED.  175 

but  a  greater  than  Law  restrains  me  !  Am  I  blotted  from 
your  desolate  fixed  eyes  ?  Lips  that  my  mortal  lips  have 
pressed,  can  you  not  quiver  when  I  cry?  Soul  that  my 
eternal  soul  has  loved,  can  you  stand  enveloped  in  my  pres 
ence,  and  not  spring  like  a  fountain  to  me  ?  Would  you  not 
know  how  it  has  been  with  me  since  your  perishable  eyes 
beheld  my  perished  face  ?  What  my  eyes  have  seen,  or  my 
ears  have  heard,  or  my  heart  conceived  without  you  ?  If 
I  have  missed  or  mourned  for  you  ?  If  I  have  watched  or 
longed  for  you  ?  Marked  your  solitary  days  and  sleepless 
nights,  and  tearless  eyes,  and  monotonous  slow  echo  of  my 
unanswering  name  ?  Would  you  not  know  ? 

"  Alas  !  would  she  ?  Would  she  not  ?  My  soul  mis 
gives  me  with  a  matchless,  solitary  fear.  I  am  called,  and 
I  slip  from  her.  I  arn  beckoned,  and  I  lose  her. 

Her  face  dims,  and  her  folded,  lonely  hands  fade  from 
my  sight. 

Time  to  tell  her  a  guarded  thing  !  Time  to  whisper  a 
treasured  word  !  A  moment  to  tell  her  that  Death  is  dumb, 
for  Life  is  deaf!  A  moment  to  tell  her  — 


A   WOMAN'S  PULPIT. 


I  FELL  to  regretting  to-day,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
that  I  am  an  old  maid ;  for  this  reason  :  I  have  a  very  se 
rious,  long,  religious  story  to  tell,  and  a  brisk  matrimonial 
quarrel  would  have  been  such  a  vivacious,  succinct,  and 
secular  means  of  introducing  it. 

But  when  I  said,  one  day  last  winter,  "I  want  some 
change,"  it  was  only  Madchen  who  suggested,  "  Wait  for 
specie  payment." 

And  when  I  said,  for  I  felt  sentimental,  and  it  was  Sun 
day  too,  "  I  will  offer  myself  as  a  missionary  in  Boston,"  I 
received  no  more  discouraging  reply  than,  "  I  think  I  see 
you  !  You  'd  walk  in  and  ask  if  anything  could  be  done 
for  their  souls  to-day  ?  And  if  they  said  No,  you  'd  turn 
around  and  come  out !  " 

And  when  I  urged,  "  The  country  heathen  requires  less 
courage ;  I  will  offer  myself  in  New  Vealshire,"  I  was  met 
by  no  louder  lion  than  the  insinuation,  "  Perhaps  I  meant 
to  turn  Universalist,  then  ?  " 

"  Madchen  !  "  said  I,  "  you  know  better  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Madchen. 

"  And  you  know  I  could  preach  as  well  as  anybody  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Madchen. 

"  Well !  "  said  I. 

"  Well !  "  said  Madchen. 

So  that  was  all  that  was  said  about  it.  For  Madchen  is 
a  woman  and  minds  her  own  business. 

It  should  be  borne  in  mind,  that  I  am  a  woman  "  myself, 


A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT.  177 

Mr.  Copperfull,"  and  that  the  following  correspondence, 
now  for  the  first  time  given  to  the  public,  was  accordingly 
finished  and  filed,  before  Madchen  ever  saw  or  thought  of 
it. 

This  statement  is  not  at  all  to  the  point  of  my  purpose, 
further  than  that  it  may  have,  as  I  suppose,  some  near  or 
remote  bearings  upon  the  business  abilities  —  by  which,  as 
nearly  as  I  can  make  out,  is  meant  the  power  of  holding 
one's  tongue  —  of  the  coming  woman,  and  that  I  am  under 
stress  of  oath  never  to  allow  an  opportunity  to  escape  me? 
of  strewing  my  garments  in  the  way  of  her  distant,  royal 
feet, 

"  To  be  sparing,"  as  has  been  said,  "  of  prefatory,  that 
is  to  say,  of  condemnatory  remarking,"  I  append  at  once 
an  accurate  vellum  copy  of  the  valuable  correspondence  in 
question. 

HERCULES,  February  28,  1 8  — . 

SECRETARY  OF   THE   NEW  VEALSHIRE   HOME  MISSION 
ARY  SOCIETY: 

REVEREND  AND  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  am  desirous  of  occu 
pying  one  of  your  vacant  posts  of  ministerial  service :  place 
and  time  entirely  at  your  disposal.  I  am  not  a  college 
graduate,  nor  have  I  yet  applied  for  license  to  preach.  I 
am,  however,  I  believe,  the  possessor  of  a  fair  education, 
and  of  some  slight  experience  in  usefulness  of  a  kind  akin 
to  that  which  I  seek  under  your  auspices,  as  well  as  of  an 
interest  in  the  neglected  portions  of  New  England,  which 
ought  to  warrant  me  success  in  an  attempt  to  serve  their 
religious  welfare. 

For  confirmation  of  these  statements  I  will  refer  you,  if 
you  like,  to  the  Rev.  Dr.  Dagon  of  Dagonsville,  and  to 
Professor  Tacitus  of  Sparta. 

An  answer  at  your  earliest  convenience,  informing  me  if 
12 


178  A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT. 

you   are  disposed  to    accept   my  services,  and  giving  me 
details  of  terms  and  times,  will  oblige, 

Yours  respectfully,  J.  W.  BANGS. 

HARMONY,  N.  V.,  March  5,  18—. 

J.  W.  BANGS,  ESQ.  : 

MY  DEAR  SIR, —  Your  lack  of  collegiate  education  is  an 
objection  to  your  filling  one  of  our  stations,  but  not  an  in 
surmountable  one.  I  like  your  letter,  and  am  inclined  to 
think  favorably  of  the  question  of  accepting  your  services. 
I  should  probably  send  you  among  the  Gray  Hills,  and  in 
March.  We  pay  six  dollars  a  week  and  "  found."  Will 
this  be  satisfactory  ?  Let  me  hear  from  you  again. 
Truly  yours,  Z.  Z.  ZANGROW, 

Sect.  N.  V.  'II.  M.  S. 

P.  S.  I  have  been  too  busy  as  yet  to  pursue  your  rec 
ommendations,  but  have  no  doubt  that  they  are  satisfac 
tory. 

HERCULES,  March  9,  18 — . 
REV.  DR.  ZANGROW  : 

DEAR  SIR,  —  Yours  of  the  5th  is  at  hand.  Terms  are 
satisfactory.  I  neglected  to  mention  in  my  last  that  I  am 
a  woman.  Yours  truly, 

JERUSHA  W.  BANGS. 

HARMONY,  N.  V.,  March  9,  18-^-. 
JERUSHA  W.  BANGS  : 

DEAR  MADAM,  —  You  have  played  me  an  admirable 
joke.  Regret  that  I  have  no  time  to  return  it. 

Yours  very  sincerely,  Z.  Z.  ZANGROW,  Sect. 

HERCULES,  March  llth. 

DEAR  SIR,  —  I  was  never  more  in  earnest  in  my  life. 
Yours,  J.  W.  BANGS. 


A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT.  179 

HARMONY,  March  14th. 
DEAR  MADAM,  —  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it.          Yours, 

Z.  Z.  ZANGROW. 

HEKCULES,  March  15,  18 — . 
REV.  DR.  ZANGROW  : 

MY  DEAR  SIR, — ^Aiter  begging  your  pardon  for  en 
croaching  again  upon  your  time  and  patience,  permit  me  to 
inquire  if  you  are  not  conscious  of  some  slight  inconsist 
ency  in  your  recent  correspondence  with  me?  By  your 
own  showing,  I  am  individually  and  concretely  qualified 
for  the  business  in  question ;  I  am  generally  and  abstractly 
beyond  its  serious  recognition.  As  an  educated  American 
Christian,  I  am  capable,  by  the  word  that  goeth  forth  out  of 
my  mouth,  of  ministering  to  the  Vealshire  Mountain  soul. 
As  an  educated  American  Christian  woman,  I  am  remanded 
by  the  piano  and  the  crochet-needle  to  the  Hercules  parlor 
soul. 

You  will  -*»•  or  you  would,  if  it  fell  to  your  lot  —  send 
me  under  the  feminine  truce  flag  of  "  teacher  "  into  Vir 
ginia,  to  speak  on  Sabbath  mornings  to  a  promiscuous  audi 
ence  of  a  thousand  negroes  :  you  forbid  me  to  manage  a 
score  of  mountaineers.  Mr.  Spurgeon's  famous  lady  par 
ishioner  may  preach  to  a  "  Sabbath-school  class  "  of  seven 
hundred  men :  you  would  deny  her  the  scanty  hearing  of 
your  mission  pulpits. 

My  dear  sir,  to  crack  a  hard  argument,  you  have,  in  the 
words  of  Sir  William  the  logical,  "  mistaken  the  associa 
tions  of  thought  for  the  connections  of  existence."  If  you 
will  appoint  me  a  brief  meeting  at  your  own  convenience 
in  your  own  office  in  Harmony,  I  shall  not  only  be  very 
much  in  debt  to  your  courtesy,  but  I  shall  convince  you 
that  you  ought  to  send  me  into  New  Vealshire.  Meantime 
I  am  sincerely  yours,  J.  W  BANGS. 


180  A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT. 

HARMONY,  March  18, 18 — . 

MY  DEAR  Miss  BANGS,  —  You  are  probably  aware 
that,  while  it  is  not  uncommon  in  the  Universalist  pulpit 
to  find  the  female  preacher,  she  is  a  specimen  of  humanity 
quite  foreign  to  Orthodox  ecclesiastical  society. 

I  will  confess  to  you,  however  (since  you  are  determined 
to  have  your  own  way),  that  I  have  expressed  in  our  hur 
ried  correspondence  rather  a  denominational  and  profes 
sional  than  an  individual  opinion. 

I  can  give  you  fifteen  minutes  on  Tuesday  next  at  twelve 
o'clock  in  my  office,  No.  41  Columbia  Street. 

It  will  at  least  give  me  pleasure  to  make  your  personal 
acquaintance,  whether  I  am  able  or  not  to  gratify  your  en 
thusiastic  and  somewhat  eccentric  request.  I  am,  my  dear 
madam,  cordially  yours,  Z.  Z.  ZANGROW,  Sect. 

I  went,  I  saw,  I  conquered.  I  stayed  fifteen  minutes, 
just.  I  talked  twelve  of  them.  The  secretary  sat  and 
drummed  meditatively  upon  the  table  for  the  other  three. 
He  was  a  thin  man  in  a  white  cravat.  Two  or  three  other 
thin  men  in  white  cravats  came  in  as  I  was  about  to  leave. 
The  secretary  whispered  to  them ;  they  whispered  to  the 
secretary :  they  and  the  secretary  looked  at  me.  Some 
body  shook  his  head  :  somebody  else  shook  his  head.  The 
secretary,  drumming,  smiled.  Drumming  and  smiling,  he 
bowed  me  out,  merely  remarking  that  I  should  hear  from 
him  in  the  course  of  a  few  days. 

I  have  since  acquired  a  vague  suspicion,  which  did  not 
dawn  at  the  time  upon  my  broadest  imagination,  that  the 
secretary  sent  me  into  New  Vealshire  as  a  private,  meta 
physical  speculation  upon  the  woman  question,  and  that  the 
New  Vealshire  Home  Missionary  Society  would  sooner  have 
sent  me  to  heaven. 

However  that  may  be,  I  received  from  the  secretary  the 
following :  — 


A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT.  181 

HARMONY,  N.  V.,  March  23,  18—. 

DEAR  Miss  BANGS,  —  I  propose  to  send  you  as  soon  as 
possible  to  the  town  of  Storm,  New  Vealshire,  to  occupy  on 
trial,  for  a  few  weeks,  a  small  church  long  uuministered  to, 
nearly  extinct.  You  will  be  met  at  the  station  by  a  person 
of  the  name  of  Dobbins,  with  whom  I  shall  make  all  neces 
sary  arrangements  for  your  board  and  introduction. 
When  can  you  go  ? 

Yours,  etc.,  Z.  Z.  ZANGROW,  Sect. 

HERCULES,  March  24,  18 — . 
Mr  DEAR  DR.  ZANGROW,  —  I  can  go  to-morrow. 

Yours,  etc.,  J.  W.  BANGS. 

A  telegram  from  the  secretary,  however,  generously  al 
lowed  me  three  days  "  to  pack."  If  I  had  been  less  kindly 
entreated  at  his  hands,  I  should  have  had  nothing  to  pack 
but  my  wounded  dignity.  I  always  travel  in  a  bag.  Did 
he  expect  me  to  preach  out  a  Saratoga  trunkful  of  flounces  ? 
I  explosively  demanded  of  Miidchen. 

"  lie  is  a  man,"  said  Miidchen,  soothingly,  "  and  he  has  n't 
behaved  in  the  least  like  one.  Don't  be  hard  upon  him." 

I  relented  so  far  as  to  pack  a  lace  collar  and  an  extra 
paper  of  hairpins.  Miidchen  suggested  my  best  bonnet.  I 
am  sorry  to  say  that  I  locked  her  out  of  the  room. 

For  the  benefit  of  any  of  my  sex  who  may  feel  induced 
to  follow  in  my  footsteps,  I  will  here  remark  that  I  packed 
one  dress,  Barnes  on  Matthew,  Olshausen  on  something 
else,  a  Tischendorff  Testament,  Madchen's  little  English 
Bible,  Jeremy  Taylor  (Selections),  and  my  rubber  boots. 
Also,  that  my  bag  was  of  the  large,  square  species,  which 
gapes  from  ear  to  ear. 

"  It  is  n't  here,"  said  Miidchen,  patiently,  as  I  locked  the 
valise. 

"  Madchen,"  said  I,  severely,  "  if  you  mean  my  Floren- 


182  A   WOMAN'S   PULPIT. 

tine,  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  it.     I  am  going  to  preach  in 
black  ties,  —  always  !  " 

"  Storm !  "  said  Madchen,  concisely.  As  that  was  pre 
cisely  what  I  was  doing,  to  the  best  of  my  abilities,  I  re 
garded  Madchen  confusedly,  till  I  saw  the  Pathfinder  on  her 
knees,  her  elbows  on  the  Pathfinder,  and  her  chin  in  her 
hands. 

"  It  is  n't  here,"  repeated  Madchen,  "  nor  anything  nearer 
to  it  than  Whirlwind.  That 's  in  the  eastern  part  of  Con 
necticut." 

I  think  the  essentially  feminine  fancy  will  before  this 
have  dwelt  upon  the  fact  that  the  secretary's  letter  was  not, 
to  say  the  least  of  it,  opulent  in  directions  for  reaching  the 
village  of  Storm.  I  do  not  think  mine  is  an  essentially 
feminine  fancy.  I  am  sure  this  never  had  occurred  to  me. 

When  it  comes  to  Railway  Guides,  I  am  not,  nor  did  I 
ever  profess  to  be,  strong-minded.  When  I  trace,  never  so 
patiently,  the  express  to  Kamtschatka,  I  am  let  out  of  the 
Himalaya  Saturday-night  accommodation.  If  I  aim  at  a 
morning  call  in  the  Himalayas,  I  am  morally  sure  to  be 
landed  on  the  southern  peak  of  Patagonia.  Madchen,  you 
understand,  would  leave  her  card  in  the  Himalayas,  if  she 
had  to  make  the  mountains  when  she  got  there. 

So,  when  Madchen  closed  the  Pathfinder  with  a  snap  of 
despair,  I  accepted  her  fiat  without  the  wildest  dream  of 
disputing  it,  simply  remarking  that  perhaps  the  conductor 
would  know. 

"  Undoubtedly,"  said  Madchen,  with  her  scientific  smile. 
"  Tell  him  you  are  going  to  see  Mr.  Bobbin  of  New  Veal- 
shire.  He  cannot  fail  to  set  you  down  at  his  backdoor." 

He  did,  or  nearly.  If  I  cannot  travel  on  paper,  I  can  on 
iron.  Although  in  the  Pathfinder's  index  I  am  bewildered, 
routed,  non  est  inventus,  "  a  woman  and  an  idiot,"  I  can  mas 
ter  the  patois  of  brakemen  and  the  hearts  of  conductors  with 
unerring  ease.  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  how  I  got  to  Storm, 


A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT.  183 

and  when  I  got  there  I  was  sure  I  did  n't  know  how  I  was 
to  get  back  again  ;  but  the  fact  remains  that  I  got  there.  I 
repeat  it  with  emphasis.  I  beg  especially  to  call  the  mas 
culine  attention  to  it.  I  desire  the  future  historian  of 
"  Woman  in  the  Sacred  Desk,"  as  he  playfully  skims  the 
surface  of  antiquated  opposition  to  this  then  long-established 
phase  of  civilization,  to  make  a  note  of  it,  that  there  was  a 
woman,  and  she  at  the  disadvantage  of  a  pioneer,  who  got 
there. 

Before  proceeding  to  a  minute  account  of  my  clerical 
history,  I  should  like  to  observe,  for  the  edification  of  the 
curious  as  well  as  for  the  instruction  of  the  imitative,  that  I 
labored  under  the  disadvantage  of  ministering  to  two  sep 
arate  and  distinct  parishes,  which  it  was  as  impossible  to 
reconcile  as  hot  coals  and  parched  corn.  These  were  the 
Parish  Real  and  the  Parish  Ideal.  At  their  first  proximity 
to  each  other,  my  ideal  parish  hopped  in  the  corn-popper  of 
my  startled  imagination,  and,  as  nearly  as  I  can  testify,  con 
tinued  in  active  motion  till  the  popper  was  full. 

Let  us,  then,  in  the  first  place,  briefly  consider  (you  will 
bear,  I  am  sure,  under  the  circumstances,  with  my  "  poro- 
chial "  style) 

THE    PARISH    IDEAL. 

It  was  "  in  the  wilderness  astray,"  but  it  abounded  in  fresh 
meat  and  canned  vegetables.  Its  inhabitants  were  heathen, 
of  a  cultivated  turn  of  mind.  Its  opportunities  were  in 
finite,  its  demands  delicately  considerate  ;  its  temper  was 
amiable,  its  experience  infantine.  It  numbered  a  score  or 
so  of  souls,  women  and  children  for  the  most  part ;  with  a 
few  delightful  old  men,  whose  white  hairs  would  go  down 
in  sorrow  to  the  grave  should  they  miss,  in  the  afternoon 
of  life,  the  protecting  shade  of  my  ministrations.  I  collected 
my  flock  in  some  rude  tenement,  —  a  barn  perhaps,  or  an 
tiquated  school-house,  —  half  exposed  to  the  fury  of  the 
elements,  wholly  picturesque  and  poetical.  Among  them, 


184  A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT. 

but  not  of  them,  at  a  little  table,  probably,  with  a  tallow 
candle,  I  sat  and  talked,  as  the  brooks  run,  as  the  clouds  fly, 
as  waves  break ;  smoothly,  as  befitted  a  kind  of  New  Veal- 
shire  conversazione  ;  eloquently,  as  would  Wesley,  as  would 
Whitfield,  as  would  Chalmers,  Spurgeon,  Beecher. 

Royally,  but  modestly,  I  ruled  their  stormy  hearts.  (N.  B. 
—  No  pun  intended.)  Their  rude  lives  opened,  paved  with 
golden  glories,  to  my  magic  touch.  Hearts,  which  mascu 
line  wooing  would  but  have  intrenched  in  their  shells  of 
ignorance  and  sin,  bowed,  conquered,  and  chained  to  their 
own  well-being  and  the  glory  of  God  —  or  their  minister  — 
by  my  woman's  fingers.  I  lived  among  them  as  their  idol, 
and  died  —  for  I  would  die  in  their  service  —  as  their  saint. 
Miidchen  might  stay  at  home  and  make  calls.  For  me,  I 
had  found  the  arena  worthy  of  my  possibilities,  and  solely 
created  for  my  happiness. 

I  wish  to  say  just  here,  that,  according  to  the  best  infor 
mation  which  I  can  command,  there  was  nothing  very  un 
common,  certainly  nothing  particularly  characteristic  of  my 
sex,  in  this  mental  pas  seul  through  which  I  tripped.  I 
suspect  that  I  was  no  more  interested  in  myself  than  and  as 
much  interested  in  my  parishioners,  as  most  young  clergy 
men.  The  Gospel  ministry  is  a  very  poor  business  invest 
ment,  but  an  excellent  intellectual  one.  Your  average 
pastor  must  take  care  of  his  own  horse,  dress  his  daughter 
in  her  rich  relations'  cast-off  clothing,  and  never  be  able  to 
buy  the  new  Encyclopaedia,  and  this  as  well  at  the  end  of 
twenty  years  as  of  two.  But  he  bounds  from  his  recitation- 
room  into  a  position  of  unquestioned  and  unquestionable 
official  authority  and  public  importance  in  two  months.  No 
other  profession  offers  him  this  advantage.  To  be  sure,  no 
other  profession  enfolds  the  tremendous  struggles  and  tri 
umphs,  serving  and  crowning,  of  the  Christian  minister,  —  a 
struggle  and  service  which  no  patent  business  motive  can 


A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT.  185 

touch  at  arm's  length  ;  a  triumph  and  crown  which  it  is  im 
possible  to  estimate  by  the  tests  of  the  bar,  the  bench,  the 
lecture-room.  But  as  it  is  perfectly  well  known  that  this 
book  is  never  read  on  Sundays,  and  that  the  introduction 
of  any  but  u  week-day  holiness  "  into  it  would  be  the  ruin 
of  it,  I  refrain  from  pursuing  my  subject  in  any  of  its  finer, 
inner  lights,  such  as  you  can  bear,  you  know,  after  church, 
very  comfortably  ;  and  have  only  to  bespeak  your  patience 
for  my  delay  in  introducing  you  to 

THE  PAKISH  REAL. 

I  arrived  there  on  Saturday  night,  at  the  end  of  the  day, 
a  ten  miles'  stage-ride,  and  a  final  patch  of  crooked  railway, 
in  a  snow-storm.  Somebody  who  lectures  has  somewhere 
described  the  unique  sensations  of  hunting  in  a  railway  sta 
tion  for  a  "  committee  "  who  never  saw  you,  and  whom  you 
never  saw.  He  should  tell  you  how  I  found  Mr.  Dobbins, 
for  I  am  sure  I  cannot.  I  found  myself  landed  in  a  snow 
drift  —  I  suppose  there  was  a  platform  under  it,  but  I  never 
got  so  far  —  with  three  other  women.  The  three  women 
had  on  waterproofs ;  I  had  on  a  waterproof.  There  were 
four  men  and  a  half,  as  nearly  as  I  could  judge,  in  slouched 
hats,  to  be  seen  in  or  about  the  little  crazy  station.  One 
man,  one  of  the  whole  ones,  was  a  ticketed  official  of  some 
kind ;  the  other  two  were  lounging  against  the  station  walls, 
making  a  spittoon  of  my  snow-drift;  the  half-man  was 
standing  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"  Was  you  lookin'  for  anybody  in  partikkelar  ?  "  said  one 
of  the  waterproofs,  thoughtfully,  or  curiously,  as  I  stood 
dismally  regarding  the  prospect. 

"  Thank  you.     Yes.     Can  you  tell  me  if  Mr.  Do  "  — 

"  obbins,"  said  the  half-man  at  this  juncture.   "  Bangs  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  New  parson  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 


186  A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT. 

"  That 's  the  talk ! "  said  Mr.  Dobbins.  "  Step  right 
round  here,  ma'am  !  " 

"  Right  round  here,"  brought  us  up  against  an  old  buggy 
sleigh,  and  an  old  horse  with  patient  ears.  "  Hold  on  a 
spell,"  said  Mr.  Dobbins,  "  I  '11  put  ye  in." 

Now  Mr.  Dobbins  was  not,  as  I  have  intimated,  a  large 
man.  Whether  he  were  actually  a  dwarf,  or  whether  he 
only  got  so  far  and  stopped,  I  never  satisfactorily  discovered. 
But  at  all  events,  I  could  have  "put"  Mr.  Dobbins  into 
anything  twice  as  comfortably  as  I  could  support  the  rever 
sal  of  the  process ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  fact  that  the  ascent 
of  a  sleigh  is  not  at  most  a  superhuman  undertaking.  How 
ever  not  wishing  to  wound  his  feelings,  I  submitted  to  the 
situation,  and  Mr.  Dobbins  handed  me  in  and  tucked  me 
up  with  consummate  gallantry.  I  mention  this  circum 
stance,  not  because  I  was  prepared  for,  or  expected,  or  de 
manded,  in  my  ministerial  capacity,  any  peculiar  deference 
to  my  sex,  but  because  it  is  indicative  of  the  treatment 
which,  throughout  my  ministerial  experience,  I  received. 

"  Comfortable?"  asked  Mr.  Dobbins  after  a  pause,  as 
we  turned  our  faces  eastward,  towards  a  lonely  landscape 
of  billowy  gray  and  white,  and  in  the  jaws  of  the  storm  ; 
" '  cause  there 's  four  miles  and  three  quarters  of  this. 
Tough  for  a  lady." 

I  assured  him  that  I  was  quite  comfortable  and  that  if 
the  weather  were  tough  for  a  lady,  I  was  too. 

"  You  don't !  "  said  Mr.  Dobbins. 

Another  pause  followed,  after  which  Mr.  Dobbins  deliv 
ered  himself  of  the  following  :  — 

"  Been  at  the  trade  long  ?  " 

"  Of  preaching  ?     Not  long." 

"  Didn't  expect  it,  you  know"  (confidentially).  "Not 
such  a  young  un.  Never  thought  on 't." 

Not  feeling  called  upon  to  make  any  reply  to  this,  I  made 
none,  and  we  braved  in  silence  the  great  gulps  of  mountain 
wind  that  well-nigh  swept  the  buggy  sleigh  over. 


A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT.  187 

"  Nor  so  good  lookin',  neither,"  said  Mr.  Dobbins,  when 
we  had  ridden  perhaps  half  a  mile. 

This  was  discouraging,  A  vision  of  Madchen  scientifi 
cally  smiling,  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Z.  Z.  Zangrow  dubiously 
drumming,  of  the  New  Vealshire  Home  Missionary  Society 
shaking  its  head,  drifted  distinctly  by  me,  in  the  wild  white 
whirlpool  over  Mr.  Dobbins's  hat. 

Were  my  professional  prospects  to  be  gnawed  at  the  roots 
by  a  dispensation  of  Providence  for  which  I  was,  it  would 
be  admitted  by  the  most  prejudiced,  not  in  the  least  account 
able  ?  Were  the  Universalist  clergy  women  never  young 
and  "  good  lookin'  ?  " 

I  did  not  ask  Mr.  Dobbins  the  question,  but  his  next 
burst  of  eloquence  struck  athwart  it  thus  :  — 

"  Had  'eni  here  in  spots,  ye  see ;  Spiritooalist  and  sech. 
There  's  them  as  thinks  't  ain't  scriptooral  in  women  folks  to 
hev  a  hand  in  the  business,  noway.  Then  ag'in  there 's 
them  as  feels  very  like  the  chap  whose  wife  took  to  beatin' 
of  him  ;  '  It  amuses  her,  and  it  don't  hurt  me.'  Howsomever 
there  's  them  as  jest  as  lieves  go  to  meetin'  as  not  when 
there  's  nothin'  else  goin'  on.  Last  one  brought  her  baby, 
and  her  husband  he  sat  with  his  head  ag'in  the  door,  and' 
held  it." 

To  these  consoling  observations  Mr.  Dobbins  added,  I  be 
lieve,  but  two  others  in  the  course  of  our  four  miles  and 
three  quarters  drive  ;  these  were  equally  cheering  :  — 

"  S'pose  you  know  you're  ticketed  to  Samphiry's?" 

I   was  obliged   to  admit  that  I   had   never  so  much   as 

& 

heard  a  rumor  of  the  existence  of  Samphiry. 

"  Cousin  of  mine,"  explained  Mr.  Dobbins,  "  on  the 
mother's  side.  Children  got  the  mumps  down  to  her  place. 
Six  on  'em." 

It  will  be  readily  inferred  that  Mr.  Dobbins  dropped  me 
in  the  drifts  about  Samphiry's  front  door  in  a  subdued  state 
of  mind.  Samphiry  greeted  me  with  a  sad  smile.  She  was 


188  A   WOMAN'S   PULPIT. 

a  little  yellow  woman  in  a  red  calico  apron.  Six  children, 
in  various  picturesque  stages  of  the  disease  which  Mr.  Dob 
bins  had  specified,  hung  about  her. 

'•  Law  me,  child  !  "  said  Samphiry,  when  she  had  got  me 
in  by  the  fire,  taken  my  dripping  hat  and  cloak,  and  turned 
me  full  in  the  dying  daylight  and  living  firelight.  "  Why, 
I  don't  believe  you  're  two  year  older  than  Mary  Ann  !  " 

Mary  Ann,  an  overgrown  child  of  perhaps  seventeen,  in 
short  dresses  buttoned  up  behind,  sat  with  her  mouth  open, 
and  looked  at  me  during  the  expression  of  this  encouraging 
comparison. 

I  assumed  my  severest  ministerial  gravity  and  silence,  but 
my  heart  was  sinking. 

I  had  salt  pork  and  barley  bread  for  supper,  and  went  to 
bed  in  a  room  where  the  ice  stood  on  my  hair  all  night, 
where  I  wrapped  it  around  my  throat  as  a  preventive  of 
diphtheria.  I  was  prepared  for  hardship,  however,  and  bore 
these  little  physical  inconveniences  bravely ;  but  when  one 
of  Mary  Ann's  brothers,  somewhere  in  the  extremely  small 
editions,  cried  aloud  from  midnight  to  five  A.  M.,  and  Sam 
phiry  apologized  for  the  disturbance  the  next  morning  on 
this  wise,  —  "  Hope  you  was  n't  kept  awake  last  night,  I  'm 
sure.  They  generally  cry  for  a  night  or  two  before  they 
get  through  with  it.  If  you  'd  been  a  man-minister  now,  I 
don't  s'pose  I  should  have  dared  to  undertake  the  keep  of 
you,  with  mumps  in  the  house  ;  but  it 's  so  different  with  a 
woman  ;  she 's  got  so  much  more  fellow-feeling  for  babies  ; 
I  thought  you  would  n't  mind  ! "  —  I  confess  that  my  heart 
dropped  "  deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound."  For  about 
ten  minutes  I  would  rather  have  been  in  Hercules  making 
calls  than  in  New  Vealshire  preaching  the  Gospel. 

I  was  aroused  from  this  brief  state  of  despair,  however, 
by  the  remembrance  of  my  now  near-approaching  profes 
sional  duties  ;  and  after  a  hot  breakfast  (of  salt  pork  and 
barley  bread)  I  retired  to  my  icy  room  to  prepare  my  mind 
appropriately  for  my  morning's  discourse. 


A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT.  189 

The  storm  had  bent  and  broken  since  early  dawn.  The 
sun  and  the  snow  winked  blindly  at  each  other.  The  great 
hills  lifted  haughty  heads  out  of  wraps  of  ermine  and 
gold.  Outlines  in  black  and  gray  of  awful  fissures  and 
caverns  gaped  through  the  mass  of  wealthy  color  which 
they  held.  Little,  shy,  soft  clouds  fled  over  these,  fright 
ened,  one  thought;  now  and  then  a  row  of  ragged  black 
teeth  snapped  them  up ;  I  could  see  them  struggle  and  sink. 
Which  was  the  more  relentless,  the  beauty  or  the  power 
of  the  sight,  it  were  difficult  choosing.  But  I,  preparing  to 
preach  my  first  sermon,  and  feeling  in  myself  (I  hope)  the 
stillness  and  smallness  of  the  very  valley  of  humiliation, 
did  not  try  to  choose.  I  could  only  stand  at  my  window 
and  softly  say,  "  Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth, 
THOU  art." 

I  do  not  know  whether  Mary  Ann  heard  me,  but  when 
she  appeared  at  that  crisis  with  my  "  shaving-water,"  and 
blushed  scarlet,  transfixed  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with 
her  mouth  open,  to  beg  pardon  for  the  mistake,  but  "  she  'd 
got  kinder  used  to  it  with  the  last  minister,  and  never 
thought  till  she  opened  the  door  and  see  my  crinoline  on 
the  chair  !  "  I  continued,  with  a  gentle  enthusiasm  :  — 

"  That  is  a  grand  sight,  my  dear,  over  there.  It  ought 
to  make  one  very  good,  I  think,  to  live  in  the  face  of  such 
hills  as  those." 

"  I  want  to  know  !  "  said  Mary  Ann,  coming  and  gaping 
over  my  shoulder.  "  Why,  I  get  as  used  to  'em  as  I  do  to 
washing-day  ! " 

I  had  decided  upon  extempore  preaching  as  best  adapted 
to  the  needs  of  my  probable  audience,  and,  with  my  icy 
hands  in  the  warm  "  shaving-water  "  and  my  eyes  on  the 
icy  hills,  was  doing  some  rambling  thinking  about  the 
Lord's  messages  and  messengers ;  but  wondering,  through 
my  slicing  of  introduction,  firstly,  secondly,  a,  b,  c,  d,  and 
conclusion,  if  the  rural  tenement  in  which  we  should  wor- 


190  A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT. 

ship  possessed  a  dinner-bell,  or  a  gong,  or  anything  of  that 
sort,  which  could  be  used  as  summons  to  assemble,  and  if 
it  were  not  quite  time  to  hear  the  sound,  when  Mary  Ann 
introduced  herself  upon  the  scene  again,  to  signify  that  Mr. 
Dobbins  awaited  my  pleasure  down-stairs.  Somewhat  con 
fused  by  this  sudden  announcement,  I  seized  my  Bible  and 
my  hat,  and  presented  myself  promptly  but  palpitating. 

"Morning,"  said  Mr.  Dobbins,  with  a  pleasant  smile. 
"  Rested  yet  ?  " 

I  thanked  him,  and  was  quite  rested. 

"  You  don't !  "  said  Mr.  Dobbins.  "  Wai,  you  see  I  come 
over  to  say  that  meetin'  's  gin  up  for  to-day." 

"  Given  up  ! " 

"  Wai,  yes.  Ye  see  there 's  such  a  heft  of  snow,  and  no 
paths  broke,  and  seein'  it  was  a  gal  as  was  goin'  to  preach, 
me  and  the  other  deacon  we  thought  she  'd  get  her  feet  wet, 
or  suthin',  and  so  we  'greed  we  wouldn't  ring  the  bell ! 
Thought  ye  'd  be  glad  to  be  let  off,  after  travelin'  all  day 
yesterday,  too  ! " 

I  looked  at  Mr.  Dobbins.  Mr.  Dobbins  looked  at  me. 
There  was  a  pause. 

"  Will  your  paths  be  broken  out  by  night  ?  "  I  asked, 
with  a  terrible  effort  at  self-control. 

"  Wai,  yes.     In  spots  ;  yes  ;  middjin'  well." 

"  Will  my  audience  be  afraid  of  wetting  their  feet,  after 
the  paths  are  broken  ?  " 

"  Bless  you,  no  !  "  said  Mr.  Dobbins,  staring,  "  they  're 
used  to  V 

"  Then  you  will  please  to  appoint  an  evening  service, 
and  ring  your  bell  at  half  past  six  precisely.  I  shall  be 
there,  and  shall  preach,  if  there  is  no  one  but  the  sexton  to 
hear  me.  And  next  Sabbath  you  will  oblige  me  by  pro 
ceeding  with  the  regular  services,  whatever  the  weather, 
without  the  least  anxiety  for  my  feet." 

"  If  you  was  n't  a  minister,  I  should  say  you  was  spunky," 


A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT.  191 

said  Mr  Dobbins,  thoughtfully.  He  regarded  me  for  some 
moments  with  disturbed  interest,  blindly  suspicious  that 
somebody  was  offended,  but  whether  pastor  or  parishioner 
he  could  not  make  out.  He  was  still  undecided,  when  he 
took  to  his  hat,  and  I  to  my  own  reflections. 

This  incident  vitally  affected  my  programme  foe  the  day. 
It  was  harrowing,  but  it  was  stimulating.  There  was  the 
inspiration  of  the  rack  about  it.  The  animus  of  the  stake 
was  upon  me.  I  could  die,  but  I  would  not  surrender. 
I  would  gain  the  respect  of  my  parishioners,  whether  — 
well,  yes  —  whether  I  gained  their  souls  or  not ;  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  say  it  now,  partly  because  of  the  gnawing  hun 
ger  for  usefulness  for  usefulness'  sake,  and  for  higher  than 
usefulness'  sake,  which  came  to  me  afterwards,  and  which, 
you  remember,  is  all  left  out  for  the  Sunday  books,  partly 
because  the  acquisition  of  my  people's  respect  was  a  neces 
sary  antecedent  to  that  of  their  salvation. 

So  by  help  of  a  fire  which  I  cajoled  from  Samphiry,  and 
the  shaving-water  which  was  warmer  than  the  fire,  I  con 
trived  to  employ  the  remainder  of  the  Sabbath  in  putting 
my  first  sermon  upon  paper. 

The  bell  rang,  as  I  had  directed,  at  half  past  six.  It  -did 
not  occur  to  me  at  the  time  that  it  sounded  less  like  a  din 
ner-gong  than  a  church-bell  of  average  size  and  respecta 
bility.  I  and  my  sermon  were  both  quite  ready  for  it,  and 
I  tramped  off  bravely  (in  my  rubber  boots),  with  Mary 
Ann  as  my  guide,  through  the  drifted  and  drifting  paths. 
Once  more,  for  the  benefit  of  my  sex,  I  may  be  permitted 
to  mention  that  I  wore  a  very  plain  street  suit  of  black,  no 
crimps,  a  white  collar  of  linen,  and  a  black  tie ;  and  that  I 
retained  my  outside  garment  —  a  loose  sack  —  in  the  pulpit. 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  Mary  Ann,  as  I  floundered  up  half 
blinded  from  the  depths  of  a  three-feet  drift.  Here  we  were 
indeed.  If  Mary  Ann  had  not  been  with  me  I  should  have 
sat  down  in  the  drift,  and  —  no,  I  do  not  think  I  should 


192  A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT. 

have  cried,  but  I  should  have  gasped  a  little.  Why  I  should 
have  been  horribly  unprepared  for  the  sight  of  a  commo 
dious  white  church,  with  a  steeple,  and  a  belfry  and  stone 
steps,  and  people  going  up  the  steps  in  the  latest  frill  and 
the  stove-pipe  hat,  the  reader  who  has  ever  tried  to  patron 
ize  an  American  seamstress,  or  give  orders  to  an  American 
servant,  or  asked  an  American  mechanic  if  he  sees  a  news 
paper,  must  explain.  The  citizens  of  Storm  might  be  hea 
then,  but  they  were  Yankees  ;  what  more  could  be  said  ? 
Sentence  a  Yankee  into  the  Desert  of  Sahara  for  life,  and 
he  would  contrive  means  to  live  like  "  other  folks." 

However,  I  did  not  sit  down  in  the  drift,  but  went  on,  with 
meeting-house  and  worshipers  all  in  an  unnatural  light  like 
stereoscopic  figures,  and  sat  down  in  the  pulpit;  a  course 
of  conduct  which  had  at  least  one  advantage  —  it  saved  me 
a  cold. 

Mr.  Dobbins,  it  should  be  noted,  met  me  at  the  church 
door,  and  conducted  me,  with  much  respect,  up  the  pulpit 
stairs.  When  he  left  me,  I  removed  my  hat  and  intrenched 
my  beating  heart  behind  a  hymn-book. 

It  will  be  understood  that,  while  I  was  not  unpracticed  in 
Sabbath-school  teaching,  mission  prayer-meeting  exhortation, 
"  remarks  "  at  sewing-schools,  and  other  like  avenues  of  re 
ligious  influence,  of  the  kind  considered  suitable  for  my  sex, 
I  had  never  engaged  in  anything  which  could  be  denomi 
nated  public  speech ;  and  that,  when  the  clear  clang  of  the 
bell  hushed  suddenly,  and  the  pause  on  the  faces  of  my  au 
dience  —  there  may  have  been  forty  of  them  —  warned  me 
that  my  hour  had  come,  I  was  in  no  wise  more  ready  to 
meet  it  than  any  Miss  A,  B,  or  C,  who  would  be  content  to 
employ  life  in  making  sofa-pillows,  but  would  be  quite  safe 
from  putting  it  to  the  outre  purpose  of  making  sermons. 

So  I  got  through  my  introductory  exercises  with  a  grim 
desperation,  and  made  haste  to  my  sermon'.  Once  with  the 
manuscript  in  my  hands,  I  drew  breath.  Once  having  looked 


A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT.  193 

my  audience  fairly  in  the  eye,  I  was  prepared  to  conquer  or 
be  conquered  by  it.  There  should  be  no  half-way  work 
between  us.  So  I  held  up  my  head  and  did  my  best. 

The  criticism  of  that  sermon  would  be,  I  suspect,  a  choice 
morning's  work  for  any  professor  of  homiletics  in  the  coun 
try.  Its  divisions  were  numerous  and  startling ;  its  intro 
duction  occurred  just  where  I  thought  it  would  sound  best, 
and  its  conclusion  was  adjusted  to  the  clock.  I  reasoned 
of  righteousness  and  judgment  to  come,  in  learned  phrase. 
Theology  and  metaphysics,  exegesis  and  zoology,  poetry 
and  botany,  were  impressed  liberally  into  its  pages.  I 
quoted  Sir  William  Hamilton,  Strauss,  Aristotle,  in  liberal 
allowance.  I  toyed  with  the  names  of  Schleiermacher  and 
Copernicus.  I  played  battledoor  and  shuttlecock  with 
"  views  "  of  Hegel  and  Hobbes.  As  nearly  as  I  can  rec 
ollect,  that  sermon  was  a  hash  of  literature  in  five  syllables 
with  a  seasoning  of  astronomy  and  Adam. 

I  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing,  when  I  read  as  mod 
estly,  reverently,  and  as  much  like  an  unanointed  church- 
member  as  I  knew  how,  a  biblical  benediction,  and  sat  down 
again  on  the  pulpit  cushions,  that  if  I  had  not  preached  the 
Gospel,  I  had  at  least  subdued  the  church-going  population 
of  Storm. 

Certain  rough-looking  fellows,  upon  whom  I  had  had  my 
eye  since  they  came  in,  —  there  were  several  of  them,  grimy 
and  glum,  with  keen  eyes  ;  men  who  read  Tom  Paine,  you 
would  say,  and  had  come  in  "  to  see  the  fun,"  —  while  I 
must  admit  that  they  neither  wept  nor  prayed,  left  the 
house  in  a  respectful,  stupid  way  that  was  encouraging. 

"  You  gin  it  to  us  !  "  said  Mr.  Dobbins,  enthusiastically. 
"  Folks  is  all  upsot  about  ye.  That  there  was  an  eloquent 
discourse,  marm.  Why,  they  don't  see  but  ye  know  jest  as 
much  as  if  ye  was  n't  a  woman !  " 

And  when  I  touched  Mary  Ann  upon  the  shoulder  to 
bring  her  home,  I  found  her  sitting  motionless,  not  quite 
13 


194  A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT. 

strangled  stiff.  She  had  made  such  a  cavern  of  her  mouth, 
during  my  impassioned  peroration,  that  an  irreligious  boy 
somewhere  within  good  aim  had  snapped  an  India-rubber 
ball  into  it,  which  had  unfortunately  stuck. 

Before  night,  I  had  reason  to  feel  assured  from  many 
sources  that  I  had  "  made  a  hit "  in  my  corner  of  New 
Vealshire.  But  before  night  I  had  locked  myself  into  the 
cool  and  dark,  and  said,  as  was  said  of  the  Charge  of  the 
Six  Hundred  :  "  It  is  magnificent ;  but  it  is  not  war  !  " 

But  this  is  where  the  Sunday  part  of  my  story  comes  in 
again,  so  it  is  of  no  consequence  to  us.  Suffice  it  to  say 
that  I  immediately  appointed  a  little  prayer-meeting,  very 
much  after  the  manner  of  the  ideal  service,  for  the  follow 
ing  Wednesday  night,  in  the  school-house,  with  a  table,  and 
a  tallow  candle,  too.  The  night  was  clear,  and  the  room 
packed.  The  men  who  read  Tom  Paine  were  there.  There 
were  some  old  people  present  who  lived  out  of  walking 
distance  of  the  church.  There  were  a  few  young  mothers 
with  very  quiet  children.  I  succeeded  in  partially  ventilat 
ing  the  room,  and  chanced  on  a  couple  of  familiar  hymns. 
It  needed  only  a  quiet  voice  to  fill  and  command  the  quiet 
place.  I  felt  very  much  like  a  woman,  quite  enough  like  a 
lady,  a  little,  I  hope,  like  a  Christian,  too.  Like  the  old 
Greek  sages,  I  "  was  not  in  haste  to  speak ;  I  said  only  that 
which  I  had  resolved  to  say."  The  people  listened  to  me, 
and  prayed  as  if  they  felt  the  better  for  it.  My  meeting 
was  full  of  success  and  my  heart  of  hope. 

Arrived  at  this  point  in  my  narrative,  I  feel  myself  in 
strong  sympathy  with  the  famous  historian  of  Old  Mother 
Morey.  For,  when  "  my  story 's  just  begun,"  why,  "  now, 
my  story  's  done." 

"  Ce  n'est  pas  la  victoire,  mais  le  combat,"  which  is  as 
sure  to*  make  the  best  autobiography  as  to  "  make  the  hap 
piness  of  noble  hearts." 

From  the  time  of  that  little  Wednesday-evening   meeting 


A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT.  195 

my  life  in  Storm  was  a  triumph  and  a  joy,  in  all  the  better 
meanings  of  these  words.  My  people  respected  me  first  and 
loved  me  afterwards.  I  taught  them  a  little,  and  they  taught 
me  a  great  deal.  I  brightened  a  few  weeks  of  their  dulled, 
drowsy,  dejected  life  :  they  will  gild  years  of  mine. 

I  desire  especially  to  record  that  all  sense  of  personal 
embarrassment  and  incongruity  to  the  work  rapidly  left  me. 
My  people  at  once  never  remembered  and  never  forgot  that 
I  was  a  woman.  The  rudest  of  the  readers  of  the  "  Age 
of  Reason  "  tipped  his  hat  to  me,  and  read  "  Ecce  Homo  " 
to  gratify  me,  and  after  that,  the  Gospel  of  John  to  gratify 
himself. 

Every  Sabbath  morning  I  read  a  plain-spoken  but  care 
fully  written  sermon,  which  cost  me  perhaps  three  days  of 
brain-labor.  Every  Sabbath  afternoon  I  talked  of  this  and 
that,  according  to  the  weather  and  the  audience.  Every 
Wednesday  night  I  sat  in  the  school-house,  behind  the  little 
table  and  the  tallow  candle,  with  the  old  people  and  the 
young  mothers,  and  the  hush,  and  the  familiar  hymns,  and 
lines  of  hungry  faces  down  before  me  that  made  my  heart 
ache  at  one  look  and  bound  at  the  next.  It  used  to  seem 
to  me  that  the  mountains  had  rather  starved  than  fed  them. 
They  were  pinched,  compressed,  shut-down  faces.  All  their 
possibilities  and  developments  of  evil  were  those  of  the 
dwarf,  not  of  the  giant.  They  were  like  the  poor  Chinese 
monsters,  molded  from  birth  in  pitchers  and  vases  ;  all  the 
crevices  and  contortions  of  life  they  filled  stupidly.  Whether 
it  was  because,  as  Mary  Ann  said,  they  "  got  as  used  to  the 
mountains  as  they  did  to  washing-day,"  and  the  process  of 
blunting  to  one  grandeur  dulled  them  to  all  others,  I  can 
only  conjecture  ;  but  of  this  my  New  Vealshire  experience 
convinced  me  :  the  temptations  to  evil  of  the  city  of  Paris 
will  bear  no  comparison  to  those  of  the  grandest  solitude 
that  God  ever  made.  It  is  in  repression,  not  in  extension, 
that  the  danger  of  disease  lies  to  an  immortal  life.  No  risks 


196  A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT. 

equal  those  of  ignorance.  Daniel  Webster  may  or  may  not 
escape  the  moral  shipwrecks  of  life,  but  what  chance  has  an 
idiot  beside  him  ? 

"  It 's  enough  to  make  a  man  wish  he  'd  been  born  a 
horse  in  a  treadmill  and  done  with  it ! "  said  Happen  to  me 
one  day.  Happen  was  a  poor  fellow  on  whom  1  made  my 
first  "  parish  call  "  ;  and  I  made  a  great  many  between  Sun 
day  and  Sunday.  He  lived  five  miles  out  of  the  village,  at 
the  end  of  an  inexpressible  mountain  road,  in  a  gully  which 
lifted  a  pinched,  purple  face  to  the  great  Harmonia  Range. 
I  made,  with  difficulty,  a  riding-skirt  out  of  my  waterproof, 
and  three  miles  an  hour  out  of  Mr.  Dobbins's  horse,  and 
got  to  him. 

The  road  crawled  up  a  hill  into  his  little,  low,  brown 
shanty,  and  there  stopped.  Here  he  had  "  farmed  it,  man 
and  boy,"  till  the  smoke  of  Virginia  battles  puffed  over  the 
hills  into  his  straightforward  brown,  young  eyes. 

"  So  I  up  and  into  it,  marm,  two  years  on  't  tough ;  then 
back  again  to  my  hoe  and  my  wife  and  my  baby,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  old  lady,  —  you  see  her  through  the  door 
there,  bedridden  this  dozen  year,  —  and  never  a  grain  of 
salt  too  much  for  our  porridge,  I  can  tell  ye,  when  one  day 
I  'm  out  to  cut  and  chop,  ten  mile  deep  in  the  furrest,  — 
alon*  too,  —  and  first  I  know  I  'm  hit  and  down  with  the 
trunk  of  a  great  hickory  lyin'  smash  !  along  this  here  leg. 

"  A  day  and  a  half  before  folks  found  me  ;  and  another 
half  day  before  the  nighest  doctor  could  get  over  to  East 
Storm.  Well ;  I  s'pose  he  done  his  best  by  me,  but  mebbe 
he  did  n't  know  no  more  how  to  set  a  leg  nor  you  do.  He 
vowed  there  war  n't  no  fracture  there.  Fracture  !  It  was 
a  jelly  before  his  eyes.  So  he  ties  it  up  and  leaves  a  tum 
bler  of  suthin  and  goes  off.  So  it  mortified.  So  I  've  ben 
here  ever  sence,  on  this  sofy.  Likely  to  be  here  —  bless 
you,  yes.  My  wife  she  tends  the  farm  and  the  baby  and 
the  old  lady  and  me.  Sometimes  we  have  two  meals  a  day, 


A  WOMAN'S   PULPIT.  197 

and  ag'in  we  don't.  When  you  come  to  think  as  your  nigh- 
est  neighbor  is  five  mile  off,  and  that  in  winter-time  —  why, 
I  can  see,  a  lookin  from  my  sofy,  six  feet  of  snow  drifted 
across  that  there  road  to  town  —  and  nought  but  one  woman 
in  gunshot  of  you  able  to  stir  for  you  if  you  starve  —  why, 
I  feel  sometimes,  beggin'  your  pardon,  marm,  I  feel  like  Hell ! 
There  's  summer-folks  in  their  kerridges  comes  riding  by, 
to  see  them  hills  —  and  kind  enough  some  of  'em  is,  I  '11  say 
that  for  'em  —  and  I  hear  'em  chatterin'  among  themselves. 

"  *  The  grand  sight ! '  says  they.  '  The  damned  sight ! ' 
says  I;  "for -I  lie  on  my  sofy  marm,  and  look  over  their 
heads  at  things  they  never  see  —  lines  and  bars  like  over 
Harmonia  red-hot  and  criss-cross  like  prison  grates.  Which 
comes  mebbe  of  layin'  and  lookin'  so  long,  and  fanciful. 
They  say  I  'd  stand  a  chance  to  the  hospital  to  New  York 
or  Boston,  mebbe.  I  hain't  gin  it  up  yet.  I  've  hopes  to 
go  and  try  my  luck  some  day.  But  I  suppose  it  costs  a 
sight.  And  my  wife,  she 's  set  her  heart  on  the  leg's  com 
ing  to  of  itself,  and  so  we  hang  along.  Sometimes  folks 
send  me  down  books  and  magazines  and  such  like.  I  got 
short  o'  reading  this  winter  and  read  the  Bible  through; 
every  word,  from  'In  the  beginning'  to  'Amen.'  It's 
quite  a  pretty  little  story-book,  too.  True  ?  I  don't  know 
about  that.  Most  stories  set  up  to  be  true.  I  s'pose  if  I 
was  a  parson,  and  a  woman  into  the  bargain,  I  should  think 
so." 

Among  my  other  parochial  discoveries  I  learned  one  day, 
to  my  exceeding  surprise,  that  Samphiry  —  who  had  been 
reticent  on  her  family  affairs  —  was  the  widow  of  one  of 
my  predecessors.  She  had  married  him  when  she  was  young 
and  pretty,  and  he  was  young  and  ambitious,  —  "  Fond  of 
his  book,  my  dear,"  she  said,  as  if  she  had  been  talking  of 
some  dead  child,  "  but  slow  in  speech,  like  Moses  of  old. 
"  And  three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  was  tight  living  for  a 
family  like  ours.  And  his  heart  ran  out,  and  his  people, 


198  A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT. 

and  maybe  his  sermons,  too.  So  the  salary  kept  a-dropping 
off,  twenty -five  dollars  at  a  time,  and  he  couldn't  take  a 
newspaper,  besides  selling  the  library  mostly  for  doctor's 
bills.  And  so  he  grew  old  and  sick  and  took  to  farming 
here,  without  the  salary,  and  baptized  babies  and  prayed 
with  sick  folks  free  and  willing,  and  never  bore  anybody  a 
grudge.  So  he  died  year  before  last,  and  half  the  valley 
turned  out  to  bury  him.  But  that  did  n't  help  it  any,  and 
I  know  you  'd  never  guess  me  to  be  a  minister's  widow,  as 
well  as  you  do,  my  dear.  I  'm  all  washed  out  and  flattened 
in.  And  I  can't  educate  my  children,  one  of  them.  If  you  '11 
believe  it,  I  don't  know  enough  to  tell  when  they  talk  bad 
grammar  half  the  time,  and  I  'd  about  as  lieves  they  'd  eat 
with  their  knives  as  not.  If  they  get  anything  to  eat,  it 's 
all  I  've  got  heart  to  care.  I  Ve  got  an  aunt  down  in  Mas 
sachusetts,  but  it 's  such  a  piece  of  work  to  get  there.  So 
I  suppose  we  shall  live  and  die  here,  and  I  don't  know  but 
it  's  just  as  well." 

What  a  life  it  was  !  I  felt  so  young,  so  crude,  so  blessed 
and  bewildered  beside  it,  that  I  gave  out  that  night,  at 
evening  prayers,  and  asked  Samphiry  to  "  lead  "  for  herself 
and  me.  But  I  felt  no  older  when  she  had  done  so. 

I  should  not  neglect  to  mention  that  I  conducted  several 
funerals  while  I  was  in  Storm.  I  did  not  know  how,  but  I 
knew  how  to  be  sorry,  which  seemed  to  answer  the  same 
purpose ;  at  least  they  sought  me  out  for  the  object  from 
far  and  near.  On  one  occasion  I  was  visited  by  a  distant 
neighbor,  with  the  request  that  I  would  bury  his  wife.  I 
happened  to  know  that  the  dead  woman  had  been  once  a 
member  of  the  Methodist  church  in  East  Storm,  whose  pas 
tor  was  alive,  active,  and  a  man. 

"  Would  it  not  be  more  suitable,"  I  therefore  suggested, 
"  at  least  more  agreeable  to  the  feelings  of  Brother  Hand, 
if  you  were  to  ask  him  to  conduct  either  the  whole  or  apart 
of  the  service  ?  " 


A  WOMAN'S  PULPIT.  199 

"  Waal,  ye  see,  marm,"  urged  the  widower,  "  the  cops 
was  partikelar  sot  on  hevin'  you,  and  as  long  as  I  promised 
her  afore  she  drawed  her  last  that  you  should  conduct  the 
business,  I  think  we  'd  better  perceed  without  any  reference 
to  Brother  Hand.  I've  been  thinking  of  it  over,  and  I 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  could  n't  take  offense  on  so 
slight  on  occasion  !  " 

I  had  ministered  "  on  trial  "  to  the  people  of  Storm,  un 
disturbed  by  Rev.  Dr.  Zangrow,  who,  I  suspect,  was  in 
private  communication  of  some  sort  with  Mr.  Dobbins,  for 
a  month,  —  a  month  of  pouting,  spring  weather,  and  long, 
lazy  walks  for  thinking,  and  brisk  ones  for  doing ;  of  grow 
ing  quite  fond  of  salt  pork  and  barley  bread ;  of  calling  on 
old  bedridden  women,  and  hunting  up  neglected  girls,  and 
keeping  one  eye  on  my  Tom  Paine  friends ;  of  preaching 
and  practicing,  of  hoping  and  doubting,  of  struggling  and 
succeeding,  of  finding  my  heart  and  hands  and  head  as  full 
as  life  could  hold ;  of  feeling  that  there  was  a  place  for  me 
in  the  earnest  world,  and  that  I  was  in  my  place ;  of  feel 
ing  that  my  womanhood  and  my  work,  like  "  righteousness 
arid  peace,"  had  "  kissed  each  other ; "  of  many  other  things 
which  I  have  promised  not  to  mention  here,  —  when,  one 
day  the  stage  brought  me  a  letter  which  ran :  — 

HERCULES,  April  28,  18  — . 
MY  DEAR,  —  I  have  the  measles.     MADCHEN. 

Did  ever  a  woman  try  to  do  anything,  that  some  of  the 
children  did  not  have  the  measles  ? 

I  felt  that  fate  was  stronger  than  I.  I  bowed  my  head 
submissively,  and  packed  my  valise  shockingly.  Some  of 
the  people  came  in  a  little  knot  that  night  to  say  good  by. 
The  women  cried  and  the  men  shook  hands  hard.  It  was 
very  pleasant  and  very  heartbreaking.  I  felt  a  dismal  fore 
boding  that,  once  iuthe  clutches  of  Hercules  and  Madchen, 


200  A   WOMAN'S   PULPIT. 

I  should  never  see  their  dull,  dear  faces  again.  I  left  my 
sorrow  and  my  Jeremy  Taylor  for  Happen,  and  my  rubber 
boots  for  Samphiry  ;  I  tucked  the  lace  collar  and  the  spare 
paper  of  hairpins  into  Mary  Ann's  upper  drawer.  I  beg 
ged  Mr.  Dobbins 's  acceptance  of  Barnes  on  Matthew,  with 
the  request  that  he  would  start  a  Sunday-school. 

In  the  gray  of  the  early  morning  the  patient  horse  trot 
ted  me  over,  with  lightened  valise  and  heavy  heart,  to  the 
crazy  station.  When  I  turned  my  head  for  a  farewell  look 
at  my  parish,  the  awful  hills  were  crossed  with  Happen's 
red-hot  bars,  and  Mary  Ann,  with  her  mouth  open,  stood  in 
her  mother's  crumbling  door. 


NUMBER  13. 


MY  DEAR,  it 's  my  opinion  that  if  all  folks  that  thought  of 
getting  -married  were  compelled  by  state  law  to  spend  six 
months  with  some  respectable  family,  under  the  same  roof, 
before  they  did  it,  there  would  n't  be  more  than  one  wed 
ding  sift  through  that  sieve  to  where  there  's  twenty  now. 

Since  you  asked  me  why  I  never  got  married,  that 's  why. 
Bless  you,  no  !  I  don't  say  you  put  it  in  so  many  words, 
but  that 's  what  you  've  been  a-saying,  every  look  and  mo 
tion  and  tone  of  you,  since  you  sat  here,  turning  your  pretty 
eyes  about  my  room  and  over  me,  my  dear,  quite  gentle  and 
uninquisitive,  but  full  of  a  kind  of  wonder  and  a  kind  of 
sadness  too.  I  've  seen  that  look  in  young  folks'  eyes  times 
and  times.  But  it  is  n't  often  Number  13  sees  such  eyes  as 
yours,  my  dear,  though  there  's  been  enough  that  was  kind, 
and  enough  that  was  sorrowful  in  it,  for  that  matter,  too.  I 
took  a  fancy  to  the  look  of  you,  I  tell  you  plainly,  the  first 
day  you  come  —  three  weeks  ago  come  Thursday  —  with 
those  half  dozen  lawn  petticoats  for  a  fine  tuck,  you  remem 
ber,  and  the  insertin  that  was  wore  to  be  taken  out  from 
above.  I  'm  set  in  my  fancies,  as  I  am  in  my  ways.  It  is 
n't  everybody  one  feels  a  drawin'  to.  You  know  you  feel 
a  drawin'  in  you  sometimes  to  folks,  when  all  the  folds  of 
your  heart  seem  gathered  up  toward  them  like  fine  gathers 
—  so  close  you  'd  hardly  see  to  stroke  'em  down.  There  's 
folks  I  've  cut  and  basted  this  dozen  year,  and  those  I  've 
done  for  by  the  fortnight,  and  even  those  I  've  made  and 
finished,  that  I  could  n't  set  and  talk  to  as  I  'm  going  on  to 


202  NUMBER    13. 

you,  my  dear  —  not  for  a  steady  engagement  on  their  trus- 
sows  or  their  rnournin'  for  a  year  to  come;  and  if  you 
thought  it  was  because  you  made  it  a  dollar  a  day  when  I 
was  askin'  only  eighty -five,  I  should  be  sorry ;  and  you  did 
it  such  a  pretty  way,  how  could  I  help  it  ?  And  when  I 
heard  how  Miss  Jabez  Smithson  run  on  about  you  for 
settin'  me  up  to  ask  more  than  your  neighbors  was  able  to 
pay  me,  I'd  have  —  I  'd  have  asked  her  one  thirty-seven  and 
a  half,  my  dear,  if  I  could  have  got  it. 

Stand  a  mite  this  way,  if  you  will,  my  dear,  nigher  to  the 
glass.  There  !  Will  you  have  the  walnut  silk  cut  bias  for 
the  shirr  ?  I  cut  one  on  the  square  for  Miss  Colonel 
Adams's  navy  blue  repellant.  I  '11  pin  it  up  a  scrap,  and  let 
you  see  it  for  yourself  —  so  3 

You  see,  my  dear,  he  was  my  cousin,  and  he  come  to  our 
house  the  winter  mother  was  failin'  —  when  we  lived  down 
East  in  Franklin  —  to  help  do  for  us,  father  being  dead  and 
the  boys  gone.  There  was  two  boys,  Ned  and  'Li'kim.  Ned 
was  the  one  that  died,  I  never  did  know  what  of.  Our  old 
doctor  said  he  had  wind  in  his  brain.  My  little  brother 
'Li'kim  —  there  !  I  need  n't  keep  you  standin'  any  longer  in 
the  blazin'  light  —  I  always  said  that  'Li'kim  meant  well, 
my  dear,  and  I  always,  always  will,  and  I  'd  rather  not  talk 
about  it  just  now ;  but  he  got  into  bad  company,  poor  little 
chap  !  and  after  father  died  he  —  ran  —  away.  One  night 
I  come  home  from  the  sewin'  circle,  and  I  found  his  com 
mon  close  and  his  little  skates  and  things  he  'd  left  in  a 
heap,  and  a  little  note  atop  to  mother.  And  mother  she 
just  threw  up  her  arms  and  ran  to  meet  me,  screechin' 
through  the  entry ;  and,  my  dear,  it  left  her  ravin'  wild 
from  that  hour  till  she  died.  Forshe  'd  had  a  fever,  and 
been  a  scrap  weakly  in  her  head  since  father's  funeral. 

But  that  does  n't  matter  now,  only  it  will  explain  some 
things  to  you,  and  how  my  cousin  Peter  Doggett  come  to 
live  with  us.  And  that  does  n't  matter,  only  that  when  I  got 


NUMBER    13.  203 

through  with  that  job,  I  did  n't  want  him  for  a  husband, 
nor  no  man  else.  The  ways  they  have  with  their  boots, 
my  dear,  and  the  smell  of  blacking,  I  don't  like ;  and  the 
pipes,  and  laying  them  against  your  clean  mantel-piece  after 
you  have  dusted,  and  the  bein'  so  particular  about  the  pud- 
den  sauce  when  you  're  wore  with  watching  sick  folks  all 
the  night,  and  the  sitting  still  and  seeing  you  bring  kindlen 
and  draw  water,  and  the  getting  used  to  you,  my  dear,  and 
snapping  of  you  up.  And  then  the  way  of  speaking  to  your 
mother ! 

My  dear,  when  it  all  began,  I  was  that  fond  of  Peter 
Doggett  I  'd  have  carried  kindlen,  or  bore  with  pipes,  or 
fussed  with  pudden  sauces,  or  run  my  feet  off  for  him  to  all 
eternity,  and  thought  myself  well  off.  And  when  it  all  was 
over,  I  would  n't  have  lifted  a  winker,  much  less  an  eyelash 
for  him,  come  what  mi^ht.  For  when  we  come  to  set  down 

O 

day  by  day  and  meal  by  meal  and  worry  by  worry  together, 
then  all  the  temper  and  all  the  selfishness  and  all  the  mean 
ness  there  was  in  us  come  up.  I  don't  know  what  he 
thought  of  mine,  my  dear.  Temper  enough,  the  Lord 
knows,  but  I  couldn't  have  snapped  him  up,  my  dear,  as  he 
did  me ;  and  if  I  'd  spoke  to  his  mother  as  he  spoke  one 
afternoon  to  mine  —  she  very  troublesome  in  the  head  that 
day,  poor  old  lady,  and  requirin'  all  the  patient  love  of  son 
and  daughter  both  to  keep  her  strong  and  still  —  if  I  had, 
I  'd  have  looked  to  be  turned  into  a  pillow  of  salt,  like  Lot's 
poor  wife,  my  dear,  and  kept  a-standin'  in  the  settin'-room 
for  a  shame  to  the  family  forever  after.  So  after  that  I 
says  to  him,  "  Peter  Doggett,  we  're  never  fitted  to  make 
each  other  happy  as  married  folks  if  we  can't  get  along  as 
common  folks."  And  so  that  was  the  end  of  that.  And 
mother  died  the  next  week,  and  Peter  went  home  after  the 
funeral ;  and  so  I  was  left  to  myself,  my  dear,  for  my  aunt 
Hannah,  Peter's  mother,  was  offended,  very  natural,  and 
there  was  no  other  of  my  blood  in  all  the  world.  I  would  n't 


204  NUMBER    13. 

have  thought  that  meant  much  once.  Young  folks  don't 
understand  such  things.  You  've  no  more  idea,  my  pretty, 
setting  there  with  your  great  eyes,  what  the  drawin'  of  kith 
and  kin  is  like,  when  you  're  left  to  shift  without  it,  than  an 
unhatched  bobolink,  and  please  God  you  never,  never  may  ! 
Nor  I  'd  no  more  idea  till  after  the  house  was  sold  to  pay  off 
old  mortgages  of  father's,  and  I  come  to  this  place,  my  dear, 
on  the  recommendation  of  a  friend  of  mine,  to  take  in,  or 
go  out  if  desired,  but  much  preferring  to  take  in,  and  only 
advertising  to  begin  with,  for  plain  sewing,  on  account  of 
a  little  weakness  in  my  eyes.  Her  name  was  Susannah 
Greenwich,  and  the  first  month  I  rented  Number  13  she 
was  a  comfort  to  me,  my  dear  ;  for  she  had  the  second  rear? 
and  ran  a  Wheeler  and  Wilson,  with  a  dreadful  backache, 
and  I  used  to  make  a  drop  of  tea  for  her  of  evenings,  and  I 
got  a  new  tea-pot  big  enough  for  two  on  purpose  ;  and  that 
was  a  pleasure  you  'd  never  guess,  my  dear,  unless  you  'd 
drunk  out  of  the  smallest  size  a  while,  and  cried  into  it  a 
good  deal  of  stormy  nights  alone.  But  Susannah  Green 
wich  she  got  married.  She  married  the  first  floor,  that  I 
cured  of  the  toothache ;  and  it  was  coming  up  after  the 
drops  that  he  took  the  notion  to  her,  when  I  'd  got  her  fixed 
comfortable,  with  a  Scotch  plaid  blanket  shawl  across  the 
chair,  and  that  red  cricket  to  her  feet,  and  the  mug  a-steam- 
ing  in  her  hand  ;  for  I  had^n't  any  tea-cups  at  that  time,  and 
the  wash-stand  mug  has  more  comfort  in  it  than  you  'd  think, 
my  dear,  when  tea-cups  are  out  of  the  question  for  lack  of 
steady  work. 

Now  I  '11  tell  you  that  this  minute  I  never  told  Susannah 
nor  a  living  soul.  He  asked  me  first,  the  first  floor  did. 
His  name  was  Thrasher.  But  I  would  n't  have  a  man 
named  Thrasher  if  he  was  first  cousin  to  the  Angel  Gabriel. 
And  he  took  it  very  kind  indeed,  and  made  up  to  Susannah 
that  day  come  a  fortnight,  for  he  was  in  a  taking  for  a  home 
as  ever  I  saw ;  and  she  moved  her  Wheeler  and  Wilson 


NUMBER    13.  205 

away,  and  they  went  across  the  river  to  live,  for  he  kept  a 
lard  factory,  and  it  was  more  convenient  for  the  hogs. 

It  was  n't  till  Susannah  'd  gone  that  it  all  came  over  me, 
my  dear.  Long  as  you  have  a  cup  of  tea  to  make  or  a 
toothache  to  cure  for  folks,  it  ain't  so  bad,  but  when  you  've 
settled  down  in  a  big  houseful  of  those  that  you  have  n't  the 
right  to  lift  a  finger  for,  nor  one  of  them  the  heart  to  do 
for  you,  and  all  going  their  own  ways,  and  living  their  own 
lives,  and  sorrowin'  their  own  sorrows,  and  lockin'  their 
souls  against  each  other  as  they  do  their  drawers  and  trunks, 
and  if  you  was  to  die  in  your  bed  of  some  lonesome  night, 
my  dear,  not  a  soul  of  'em  would  know  nor  care  until  the 
landlady  noticed,  maybe,  by  next  evening  that  you  didn't 
make  a  noise  about  your  room,  and  sent  up  the  Loon  to 
see.  I  call  her  the  Loon,  my  dear,  for  she 's  the  cham 
ber-maid  and  nigh  as  crazy  ;  besides,  the  color  of  her  eyes 
the  same,  if  you  noticed  it  upon  the  stairs.  I  've  lost  my 
collection  of  ideas,  my  dear,  but  I  was  going  to  say,  it  is 
a  way  of  living  that  folks  can't  dream  nor  guess  at  till 
they  've  lived  it.  It  seems  to  me,  as  I  set  and  think  it  over, 
as  if  we  had  to  live  such  large  whiles  in  this  world,  my  dear, 
to  understand  the  least,  least  little  things  ! 

Hard  ?  Yes,  my  dear,  I  thought  so  then.  When  first  I 
knuckled  to  it  down  in  Number  131  thought  it  was  a  little 
hard.  But,  bless  you  !  that  was  before  I  knew  what  hard 
ness  was,  or  where  the  comfort  of  it  was  coming  in.  It's 
like  the  soft  side  of  a  pine  board,  boardin'  is.  There  !  I 
did  n't  mean  that  for  a  conundrum,  but  it 's  a  pretty  good 
one  ;  don't  you  think  so  ? 

Turn  a  scrap  this  way,  while  I  pin  the  gore  against  the 
loop.  Yes. 

Comfort  ?  I  've  had  enough  of  comfort  in  this  scrimpy 
little  wee  worn  room,  my  dear,  to  warm  a  cold  heart  through 
for  forty  harder  lives  than  mine.  No,  I  don't  know  as  I 
could  tell  you  how  it  comes.  Comfort  is  like  sunshine  of 


206  NUMBER    13. 

an  afternoon  :  you  can't  reason  how  it  comes,  but  only  know 
the  blessed  comin',  and  set  and  curl  up  in  it  a-warmin' 
through  and  through,  my  dear.  And  it  ain't  so  much  then 
as  it  is  afterward  that  you  know  how  warm  you  are.  I  've 
taken  a  surprising  deal  of  pleasure  in  the  course  of  my  ex 
perience  in  thinking  how  well  off  I  was  once,  after  it  was 
over.  Some  folks  can't,  I  know.  Eggs  ain't  speckled  all 
alike,  nor  there  don't  no  two  kittens  in  a  batch  run  after 
their  tails  with  just  the  same  degree  of  sperit.  I  've  seen 
cats  that  would  do  it  in  a  melancholy  manner,  as  if  they 
were  doing  you  a  personal  favor,  and  cats  that  would  do  it 
in  a  superior  manner,  as  if  they  'd  show  the  other  cats  how 
much  it  was  beneath  'em.  There 's  cats  and  cats. 

If  you  'd  rather  set  and  wait  for  me  to  baste  the  kilt 
platin'  together,  I  '11  try  and  tell  you  something  about  it ; 
but  it 's  a  scrimpy  story,  like  the  room,  my  dear,  and  wee 
and  worn  too,  like  the  room.  Everything  's  been  scrimpy 
in  my  life,  my  pretty,  but  the  comfort. 

After  Susannah,  it  all  began  with  Miss  Major  Crackle- 
jaw,  upon  the  same  floor  front.  I  'd  seen  her  going  in  and 
out  —  a  little  creetur  with  big  eyes  and  stylish  hair  ;  but 
I  'd  never  taken  notice  to  speak  to  most  the  folks,  for  the 
third  floor  rear,  with  one  window  and  a  gas  stove  and  do  for 
yourself,  ain't  just  abreast  of  the  full  soots  or  front  parlors 
and  board  besides,  you  see.  So,  after  Susannah  Thrasher 
went,  I  fought  mostly  shy  of  'em,  unless  it  was  a  little 
plain  sewing,  and  once  or  twice  the  week's  mendin'  for  Miss 
M'Henry  Dumps  (as  true  as  you  stand  in  your  bustle,  that 
was  her  blessed  name !  )  —  the  first  floor  she  was,  with  three 
babies  and  a  nurse  with  neuralgy  twice  a  week  in  the  frou- 
ziest  head  I  ever  saw,  that  dropped  the  baby  down  the 
steps  if  you  '11  believe  it,  twice  that  winter. 

And  so,  because  I  kept  so  mostly  to  myself,  and  because 
Number  13  was  cold,  nay  dear,  when  the  gas  was  contrary, 
and  I  had  n't  that  chair  in  there  made  out  of  the  barrel,  with 


NUMBEK    13.  207 

the  patchwork  cover  —  poor  Miss  Flynn  and  Tommy  Ilark- 
ness,  they  gave  me  that  chair,  but  I  have  n't  come  to  them 
yet  —  nor  the  Turkey -red  valance  on  the  curtain,  my  dear : 
and  you  can't  guess  the  comfort  there  is  in  a  mite  of  Tur 
key  red,  nor  how  my  poor  dear  Helen  Goldenough  looked 
blushing  in  the  day  she  knocked  and  said,  Might  she  give 
herself  a  great  comfort  by  putting  of  it  up  ?  And  I  had  n't 
got  the  tea-set  then,  nor  that  little  shelf  old  Mr.  Hopkinson 
put  up  to  hold  the  cups  I  bought  next  quarter,  nor  the 
pretty  shade  across  the  gas,  for  your  poor  eyes,  or  the  lace 
and  paper  with  the  maple  leaves  between,  sent  by  the  attic 
rear,  my  dear,  with  the  sweetest  poor  face,  and,  oh !  she  got 
into  such  a  trouble  !  nor  the  little  book-case  either  from  Miss 
Crackle  jaw  herself,  one  Christmas-eve,  with  John  G.  Whit- 
tier's  poems  a-standing  all  alone  and  looking  such  a  com 
fort  !  Nor  I  had  n't  got  this  blessed  stove  in  then  that  I 
saved  a  year  to  run  the  pipe  through,  and  to  get  the  land 
lady  quite  willing ;  for  anybody's  temper  would  be  wore  a 
little  thin,  my  dear,  with  folks  that  did  n't  pay,  to  say  noth 
ing  of  the  Loon.  And  make  the  best  you  might,  my  dear, 
there  is  no  comfort  in  the  Loon. 

So  I  was  setting  all  alone,  my  dear,  one  night  without  a 
light,  and  shivering  over  the  gas  stove,  and  moping  by  my-- 
self,  for  I  was  out  of  work;  and,  setting  there,  I  began 
to  think.  All  at  once  I  began  to  seem  to  be  setting  in 
the  keeping-room  at  home  with  my  little  brother  'Li'kim. 
What  I  said  about  the  drawin'  that  you  feel  for  folks,  you 
know,  and  you  know  how  some  drawin's  is  as  much  tighter 
than  other  drawin's  as  is  the  difference  between  the  sun 
light  and  the  moonlight,  or  between  the  fire  and  the  freeze ! 
I  don't  know  how  it  was  —  I  can't  talk  much  about  it  even, 
after  all  —  but  in  all  my  life  I  never  had  such  a  drawin' 
of  all  that  in  you  that  makes  you  love  and  live  for  folks, 
and  be  blessed  when  they  're  by  you,  and  be  wretched  when 
they  ain't,  and  most  of  all  that  feelin'  that  makes  you  glad 


208  NUMBER    13. 

to  do  and  suffer  for  'em  and  spare  'em  pain,  and  shelter  of 
'em  up  as  hens  brood  over  their  poor  chicks,  or  like  young 
mothers  cuddliu'  their  first  babies,  as  the  feelin's  that  I  had 
for  my  little  brother  'Li'kim.  What  I  thought  of  Peter 
Doggett  before  he  come  to  live  with  us  come  nighest  to  it ; 
but  it  never,  never  was  the  same. 

'Li'kim  was  a  pretty  boy,  my  dear,  and  his  hair  curled.  I 
used  to  curl  it  across  my  fingers  for  him  every  morning ; 
and  he  brought  his  little  lessons  to  me,  and  he  always  liked 
to  get  by  me,  and  he  'd  rather  I  'dgo  up  to  hear  his  prayers. 
And  oh,  my  dear,  from  the  night  he  left  us  till  —  till  long 
afterward  —  till  this  very  living  night  —  I  '11  own  to  you, 
when  I  've  kneeled  to  say  my  own,  there  's  never,  never 
been  a  night,  not  one,  that  I  have  n't  said  over  "  Now  I  lay 
me  "  through  for  him,  my  dear,  fearin'  he  'd  grown  too  wild 
and  wayward  to  say  it  for  himself. 

But  I  've  wandered  far  from  Miss  Cracklejaw  ;  you  must 
excuse  me.  I  have  n't  often  spoke  of  'Li'kim  —  not  for 
many  years.  He  was  the  light  of  my  eyes,  my  dear  —  poor 
boy  !  —  just  the  living  light  of  my  young  eyes.  I  used  to 
tell  him  so  sometimes  when  we  sat  alone  ;  but  then  I  did  n't 
even  know  what  I  was  a-saying  when  I  was  a-saying  that. 

But  when  I  was  setting  there  that  evening  it  all  come 
back,  and  all  I  could  think  of  was  that  little  fellow  ;  and  the 
strange  old  mystery  of  kith  or  kin,  and  how  I  was  left  bat- 
tlin'  without  it,  come  over  me  ;  and  how  dreary  the  room 
looked,  and  how  cold  it  was,  and  I  without  a  friend  in  all 
that  big  drear  house,  and  the  tea-pot  only  lukewarm  upon 
the  stove  !  And  I  seemed  to  see  my  life  go  stretching  out, 
out,  like  an  awful  seam  to  which  there  is  no  end,  and  me 
sitting  taking  stitches  to  shorten  of  it  up,  just  so,  pent  up 
alone  with  my  tea-pot  in  that  little  room,  and  never  a  face 
to  kiss  nor  a  hand  to  get  hold  of  when  your  head  aches  like 
to  split,  my  dear,  and  never  a  voice  to  speak  nor  to  talk 
back  to,  and  in  all  the  wide,  old  world  no  speck  of  comfort 
to  your  name,  my  dear. 


NUMBER    13.  209 

Then  all  at  once  within  the  little  lonely  room  I  seemed 
to  see  my  little  brother  'Li'kim  kneeling  down  to  say  his 
prayers  ;  and  I  put  down  my  tea-cup  —  for  it  was  dark, 
and  my  eyes  never  very  strong,  and  I  often  saw  queer 
things  —  and  I  kneeled  down  where  I  seemed  to  see  him 

o 

and  went  through  "  Now  I  lay  me  "  by  myself,  till  the  tea 
was  cold.  But  I  felt  better  for  it,  somehow,  that  I  did, 
my  dear,  and  before  I  was  off  my  knees  Miss  Cracklejaw 
knocked  sudden,  and  I  jumped  as  if  I  'd  been  struck  in  a 
heap  to  let  her  in. 

She  wanted  a  little  sewin'  done,  she  said,  and  would  I 
just  step  into  her  room  and  see  if  I  could  do  it  for  her  ?  So 
I  went  in  with  her,  and  we  set  down  and  began  to  talk 
about  the  work.  They  was  little  things,  my  dear,  a  little 
blanket,  and  a  little  shirt,  and  what  not,  and  she  'd  given  out 
on  finishing  'em  off,  for  she  was  n't  very  well ;  and  I  was 
sorry  for  her  as  we  set  and  talked,  for  now  and  then  the 
tears  come  and  trickled  down,  and  she  in  a  sadder  way, 
my  dear,  than  she  'd  ought  to  be,  till  I  knew  there  was  a 
trouble  on  her  mind ; "  and  at  last,  while  we  were  talking,  it 
come  over  me,  with  a  great  stirring  in  my  heart,  to  find 
out  what  it  was  that  wore  on  her,  and  be  a  comfort  if  I 
could.  So,  though  I  was  the  third  rear  and  a  gas  stove,  I 
up  and  says  :  — 

"Miss  Cracklejaw,  something  worries  you.  I 'ma  poor 
woman,  but  your  neighbor,  and  if  ever  I  can  do  for  you,  just 
let  me  know,  and  there  I  am  ;  for  it 's  lonesome  boardin' 
with  your  worries,  as  I  know,  my  dear." 

Well,  she  thanked  me  pretty  enough  —  very  prettily  for 
a  woman  with  such  a  stylish  head  of  hair,  and  cried  again, 
and  said  she  'd  see,  and  said  there  was  a  worry,  and  it  broke 
her  heart. 

Now  it  was  that  very  night,  my  dear,  I  sittin'  in  my  dres- 
sin'-gownd  to  read  my  chapter,  that  I  heard  the  noise  out 
side  iny  door,  a  stumblin',  scrapin'  noise,  and  then  a  bangin' 
14 


210  NUMBER    13. 

like  the  last  trumpet  up  against  my  door,  and  I  went  to  see, 
for  it  was  half  after  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  hours  in  the 
house  are  half  past  ten,  excepting  latch-keys  to  gentlemen 
of  good  habits  at  eleven,  and  there,  my  dear,  I  come  plump 
on  Major  Crackle  jaw,  drunk  as  drunk. 

His  poor  wife  come  out  as  I  come  out,  in  a  pretty  white 
wrapper,  with  shirred  pink  merino  up  the  front,  you  know, 
and  her  hair  all  streaming  and  her  face  as  white !  And  we 
helped  him  into  bed  together,  he  never  knowin',  and  neither 
of  us  spoke  a  word  till  it  was  done.  Then  says  I,  "  I  know 
your  worry  now,  Miss  Cracklejaw,  and  Heaven  help  you ! " 

And  she  says  :  "  Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  what  shall  I  do  ? 
It  was  so  last  week  and  the  week  before,  and  twice  last 
month,  and  some  other  times.  And  I  Ve  let  him  in  quite 
quiet,  nobody  knowin'  his  disgrace  ;  for  lie  's  a  young  man, 
my  husband  is,  and  never  was  like  this  before,  and  promised 
me  he  never,  never  would.  But  he  's  got  into  a  bad  set," 
she  says,  and  "  he 's  troubled  in  his  business  "  — we  had  to 
excuse  so  much  in  men,  she  said,  on  account  of  business  — 
and  now,  when  she  was  taken  ill,  oh  !  'who  would  let  him  in 
at  nights,  and  save  the  house  from  knowin'  of  the  shame  ? 
she  says.  And  she  was  in  such  a  taking  as  you  never  saw. 
So  of  course  I  said  I  'd  let  him  in,  my  dear,  and  so  I  did. 
And  I  let  him  in  with  a  vengeance,  I  tell  you  ;  for  when  it 
happened  twice,  I  gave  him  such  a  talkin'  to,  she  lying  weak 
and  miser'ble  up-stairs,  poor  creetur,  that,  for  very  shame, 
it  was  a  fortnight  before  he  dared  to  try  it  again,  nay  dear. 
And  I  talked  when  he  was  sober,  and  I  talked  when  he  was 
drunk,  and  I  set  up  always  till  that  man  was  in,  as  if  he  'd 
been  a  boy  a  dozen  years  old;  and  after  the  baby  was  born 
he  got  ashamed  of  it,  or  else  I  made  it  too  much  trouble, 
and  he  pulled  through  and  come  out  all  right,  my  dear  ; 
and  such  a  grateful  creetur,  when  I  sat  of  evenings  now  and 
then  to  help  about  the  baby  !  for  she  was  a  long  time  get 
ting  up.  And  never  a  soul  but  them  two  and  myself  knew 


NUMBER   13.  211 

of  his  disgrace,  my  dear,  for  I  never  let  on  a  word  of  it ; 
and  if  they  had  n't  been  unknownst  to  you,  and  gone  to 
California  besides,  I  would  n't  let  on  now.  I  don't  know 
why  she  took  on  so  about  it,  as  if  I  'd  done  her  some  tre- 
menjous  favor.  Any  woman  would  have  done  it  she  'd  seen 
fit  to  let. 

Now  when  I  saw  that  young  thing  well  and  spry,  and 
him  as  well-behaved  as  need  be,  and  the  baby  with  the 
whooping-cough,  and  him  so  tender  to  it,  and  home  of  even 
ings,  I  got  such  comfort  in  it  as  you  'd  never  guess.  It  was 
'most  as  good  as  having  a  husband  and  baby  of  your  own, 
without  the  bother  or  the  blacking.  And  there  was  that 
in  the  way  them  two  looked  at  me,  and  the  tones  of  their 
voice  when  they  spoke  to  me,  my  dear,  forever  after,  that 
made  my  scrimpy  little  room  a  sort  of  home  to  me  —  if  you 
can  understand  the  feelin'  —  even  when  I  set  alone. 

And  oh !  the  tones,  my  dear,  and  oh  !  the  voices  and  the 
looks  these  walls  have  seen,  I  don't  know  why  !  And  the 
folks  that  have  made  this  house  a  comfort  to  me,  I  don't 
know  how  !  I  think  I  got  the  most  out  of  poor  Miss  Flynn 
and  Tommy  Harkness  for  a  while,  though  why  they  ever 
should  have  come  to  me  !  You  see,  it  had  been  going  on  a 
long  while :  she  very  young  and  pretty,  and  her  mother 
dead,  and  working  in  a  dollar  store  all  day ;  and  Tommy 
Harkness,  he  was  young  and  thoughtless,  and  he  had  the 
second  opposite,  but  he  was  in  the  retail  grocery  ;  and  I  don't 
suppose  they  thought  of  marrying.  But  she  was  lonesome, 
and  the  boy  was  good-natured,  and  this  had  been  goin'  on 
for  nigh  two  years,  till,  my  dear,  she  was  the  talk  of  the 
house. 

One  evening,  up  comes  Miss  Barker  —  she  's  the  land 
lady,  you  know  —  and  says  she,  "  I  can't  have  this  any 
longer,"  says  she  ;  "  there's  such  goin's-on,  and  in  her  room 
at  reasonable  and  onreasonable  hours,  arid  caught  a  kissin' 
of  her  a  Tuesday  last !  All  my  folks  are  talkin'  about  it. 


212  NUMBER   13. 

Maggie  Flynn  must  suit  herself  with  a  less  respectable 
house,"  says  Miss  Barker. 

Now,  my  dear,  I  was  in  that  distress  I  could  n't  bear  my 
self  for  a  half  an  hour,  for  I  liked  Miss  Flynn,  though  very 
imprudent ;  but  I  'cl  as  soon  think  evil  of  myself,  my  dear, 
as  of  that  child.  And  in  she  comes  while  I  was  turning  of 
it  over,  all  her  hair  tumbled,  and  her  eyes  as  red  as  the 
Loon's  herself,  and  wringing  of  her  hands  and  wringing  of 
her  hands.  Oh  !  what  would  ever  become  of  her  ?  What 
had  she  done  ?  What  should  she  do  ?  And  she  clings  to 
me,  and  begs  me  to  save  her  from  such  a  shameful,  awful 
thing.  In  all  the  house,  she  said,  I  was  the  only  friend  she 
had  to  tell.  I  don't  know  why,  for  more  than  taking  in  a 
hot  brick  or  so  when  she  had  an  influenza,  and  watching  for 
a  word,  and  wishing  she  'd  confide  in  me  about  the  boy  — 
for  I  'd  felt  uneasy  —  I  'd  never  done. 

I  think,  my  dear,  that  was  the  hardest  three  days'  work  I 
ever  did,  for  it  took  three  days  to  straighten  of  it  out.  And 
such  a  time  !  Miss  Cracklejaw  did  most  of  that,  though  set 
against  the  girl  to  start  with.  But  we  talked  it  over,  and 
we  had  Miss  Barker  up,  and  Miss  Flynn,  all  red  and  cry 
ing,  and  Tommy  too  ;  and  Miss  Cracklejaw  she  said  if  we 
could  carry  it  out,  she'd  invite  me  down  to  supper  on  Christ 
mas  evening  —  for  it  was  Christmas  time.  She'd  invited 
me  before,  my  dear ;  but  when  it 's  only  a  dried  herring  arid 
a  cup  of  tea  and  a  gas  stove  you  can  ask  back  to,  you  feel 
a  delicacy.  So  Miss  Cracklejaw  invited  me  to  supper,  and 
Miss  Barker,  we  prevailed  upon  her  to  say  she  'd  abide  by 
the  decision  of  the  house  if  it  was  laid  before  the  house. 
So  then  I  goes  to  Tommy  Harkness,  and  I  says,  "  Thomas, 
you  and  Maggie  Flynn  must  be  engaged  to  be  married  be 
fore  six  o'clock  to-riight.  And  then,  Thomas,  you  '11  have 
to  go  across  to  old  Miss  Phipps's  to  board,  and  call  on 
Maggie  in  the  parlor." 

Says   Thomas,  groaning  out  between  his  hands,  "  Oh,  is 


NUMBER    13.  213 

it  so  bad  as  that  ?  Oh,  I  wish  she  'd  never  seen  me  !  I 
would  n't  have  had  this  happeu,  not  for  the  worth  of  State 
Street,"  say  Tommy  Harkness  ;  for  he  was  fond  of  Maggie, 
arid  never  meant  to  harm  her.  Then  he  holds  up  his  head, 
with  his  cheeks  hot.  "  Maggie 's  a  lady  !  "  says  he,  fast  and 
mad.  "  She 's  been  a  lady  to  me.  It 's  I  that  was  n't  the 
gentleman,"  says  he,  "  for  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  her. 
Maggie  is  a  good  girl,"  says  Tommy,  mighty  proud.  Then 
he  melted  down  quite  piteous,  and  cries,  "  I  didn't  think!  I 
didn't  think  !  And  we  have  n't  any  thing  to  marry  on,  and 
how  could  a  fellow  get  engaged  ?  " 

So  I  made  quick  work  of  Tommy  Harkness,  but  it  was 
three  blessed  days  before  Miss  Flynn  would  show  her  poor 
face  to  any  soul  but  me,  or  barely  eat  a  morsel,  and  crying 
her  eyes  out,  my  dear,  till  she  was  almost  blind.  But  when 
the  Christmas  come,  I  told  Miss  Crackle  jaw  I  'd  accept  her 
invitation  to  supper,  seeing  it  would  run  on  forever  if  I 
did  n't  take  a  step  decided ;  and  I  took  her  just  as  she  was, 
all  pale  and  blinded  with  the  tears,  one  hand  in  mine,  and 
Tommy  Harkness  with  the  other  on  his  arm.  My  !  how 
that  boy  did  tremble  !  And  Miss  Cracklejaw  she  was  very 
polite  and  pretty,  and  so  I  took  my  first  tea,  my  dear,  at 
Miss  Barker's  table. 

All  the  house  was  there,  and  the  room  as  bright  as  bright. 
And  you  never  saw  how  the  silver  seemed  to  me  to  shine, 
or  the  pleasant  look  about  the  cake-basket,  my  dear.  And 
I  stood  up  before  them  all,  and  I  says,  for  I  knew  them 
mostly  by  that  time. 

"  My  friends,"  I  says,  "  I  've  come  to  ask  you  to  congrat 
ulate  these  two  young  people  for  being  promised  to  each 
other  to  be  man  and  wife."  I  says  it  very  solemn,  'most 
like  a  marriage  service,  and  the  people's  faces,  though  black 
enough,  my  dear,  took  on  a  solemn  look.  "  They  're  very 
young,"  I  further  says,  "  without  father  or  mother  to  guide 
them  or  advise  them  —  very  young,"  I  says ;  and  when  I 


214  NUMBER    13. 

felt  her  poor  hand  shake  in  mine,  there  come  that  trem 
bling  in  my  voice  I  hardly  could  get  out  the  words.  "  And  I 
think,"  says  I,  "  that  you  '11  all  agree  with  me  as  it 's  easier 
in  this  world  to  do  foolish  things  than  prudent  ones,  and 
sweeter  to  think  well  of  folks  than  ill  of  folks,  and  nobler 
to  remember  that  we  none  of  us  ain't  sure  till  we  are  in  our 
graves  that  the  time  may  n't  come  we  '11  need  folks  to  be 
lieve  in  us  too  against  appearances,  and  to  forgive  us  too  the 
little  follies  we  may  commit  despite  ourselves.  My  friends," 
says  I,  "  it 's  my  belief  no  man  nor  no  woman  of  us  will 
ever  grow  so  old  as  to  be  sure  we  might  n't  make  a  blunder 
and  be  sorry  for  it,  and  yet  have  hearts  as  innocent  as  two 
yonng  hearts  I  've  looked  into  and  know  all  about.  And  so, 
because  it 's  the  blessed  Christmas  time,  in  which  we  all  love 
to  think  kindly  and  believe  much  in  one  another,  I  'm  sure 
you  '11  join  with  me  in  the  little  supper  of  congratulation 
I've  come  down  to  take  with  you  and  my  two  dear  young 
friends  to-night." 

And,  my  dear,  they  did — yes,  they  did.  Even  Miss 
Barker  she  cleared  up,  and  they  helped  Miss  Flynn  six 
times  to  marmalade  among  'em,  and  wished  her  merry 
Christmas,  and  talked  politics  most  beautiful,  when  she  be 
gan  to  cry  afresh,  to  change  the  subject.  And  when  that 
supper  was  over,  first  I  knew  that  whole  tableful  of  folks, 
they  rose  up,  and  Major  Crackle  jaw,  says  he :  — 

"  A  hundred  merry  Christmases  and  three  cheers  for  her 
that  has  the  Christmas  soul  among  us  !  "  says  Major  Crack- 
lejaw.  And  so,  as  I  sat  looking  round,  quite  pleased  and 
happy,  and  wondering  who  it -was  of  whom  the  Major 
thought  that  pretty  thought,  my  dear,  would  you  believe 
it  ?  All  those  folks  they  got  up  and  they  cheered  me  !  ME  ! 

My  dear,  I  like  to  have  fell  through  the  floor,  not  so 
much  because  the  Loon  dropped  the  preserved  ginger  down 
my  neck  that  minute,  as  she  truly  did,  and  very  cold  I 
found  it  for  so  hot  a  tasting  thing,  and  my  best  alpaca  too 


NUMBER    13.  215 

—  but  you  can't  scold  a  creetur  with  no  more  gumption 
than  that  creetur  has  —  but  because  of  the  fright  of  it  and 
the  surprise.  But  afterward,  when  I  come  to  think  it  over, 
there  come  such  a  comfort  to  it  I  could  hardly  close  my  eyes 
that  blessed  night. 

Ah,  my  dear,  and  so  it 's  been  this  thing  and  been  that ; 
but  I  wish  you  'd  seen  my  poor  Miss  Goldenough  before 
the  small-pox  winter.  Not  so  very  pretty,  but  gentle  and 
well-looking,  though  I  never  can  abide  loops  brought  round 
behind  and  puffed  across  the  bustle.  And  when  she  was 
taken  down  up  there  in  that  attic,  and  not  a  relative  nigher 
than  Kentucky,  when  she  come  on  to  sing  in  the  Beatoven 
chorus,  there  was  I,  with  a  full  week  on  Miss  Jabez  Smith- 
son,  for  she  was  going  to  New  York  to  make  a  little  visit ; 
and  when  Miss  Barker  come  up  all  of  a  zeal  about  sending 
of  the  poor  creetur  to  the  hospital,  I  says,  "  What  shall  I 
do  ?  "  Indeed  I  did  !  But  then  I  thought  of  being  down 
with  small-pox  in  that  attic,  and  no  kith  nor  kin  to  stand 
by  you,  and  of  the  terror  that  she  had  about  the  hospital, 
for  she  'd  often  told  me,  and  it  was  something  of  a  cousin 
that  was  neglected  in  one  once,  and  died  most  horrible.  And 
I  says,  my  dear,  what  has  Heaven  left  me  without  own 
folks  for,  if  it  ain't  to  be  own  folks  to  those  that  are  simi 
lar  ?  and  I  says :  — 

"  Miss  Barker,  let  the  poor  thing  stay,  and  shut  us  up 
together  in  the  attic,  and  the  Loon  will  bring  the  meals  and 
my  good-by  to  all  the  house,"  says  I,  "  and  tell  no  one  to 
come  nigh  us." 

And  so  she  did  it,  for  she  's  a  grateful  creetur  ;  and  ever 
after  not  scolding  her  about  the  ginger,  she  was  most  will 
ing/or  a  Loon:  a  little  used  to  sharp  words,  I  guess,  for 
most  things. 

So  I  stayed  three  weeks  in  that  attic,  and  the  doctor  and 
the  Loon  come  every  day  —  at  least  the  tips  of  her  fingers 
with  the  dishes  —  and  I  never  saw  her  eyes  so  blazin'  red 


216  NUMBER    13. 

before  nor  since.  And  we  did  the  best  we  could ;  but  one 
night,  Tuesday  three  week,  as  I  was  dropping  into  a 
scrappy  nap  upon  the  comfortables  I  'd  laid  upon  the  floor, 
Helen  Goldenough  she  called  me  in  a  ringing  voice. 

I  spring,  and  am  by  her  in  a  minute,  and  there  she  sits, 
bolt-upright  and  awful,  in  the  bed.  Says  she  :  — 

"Why,  mother!"  says  she  —  "why,  mother,  how  good 
of  you  to  come  !  " 

My  dear,  she  took  me  for  her  mother ;  and  when  I  saw 
the  change  upon  her,  I  can't  tell  you  the  solemn  feelings  of 
my  heart  to  hear  that  word. 

But  they  wern't  as  solemn  as  the  feelings  that  I  had  a 
minute  after,  when  that  poor  thing  did  what  she  did.  My 
dear,  upon  my  living  word,  she  rose  upon  her  knees  and 
folded  of  her  hands  and  begun  to  say  her  prayers  to  me. 
I  'm  'most  afraid  to  tell  you  what  she  said.  Says  she  :  — 

"  Our  mother  who  art  in  heaven  !  "  that 's  what  she  says 
—  "  our  mother  who  art  in  heaven,  hallowed  be  thy  name  !  " 
says  Helen  Goldenough.  And  then,  whether  she  took  me 
for  mother  on  earth  or  mother  in  heaven  I  can't  say,  not 
knowin',  but  she  puts  her  poor  hands  about  my  neck,  for 
I  would  n't  have  deceived  her  not  to  move  an  eyelash  if 
I  'd  died  for  it  that  minute  ;  and,  my  dear,  I  was  so  much 
own  folks  to  her,  and  whether  those  of  earth  or  heaven 
does  n't  matter  as  I  know,  that  she  fell  into  my  arms,  all 
dreadful  as  she  was,  and  there,,  she  died. 

Her  mother  did  come  on  two  days  after,  and  I  told  her 
how  it  was.  I  don't  think,  if  I  'd  live  to  the  next  Centen 
nial  and  the  ballots,  I  'd  forget  that  woman's  look  nor  the 
words  she  said  to  me.  I  can't  tell  them  to  you,  my  dear, 
for  they  were  far,  far  above  my  best  deserving ;  and  she 
gave  the  Loon  a  dollar  bill,  and  slept  with  me  and  cried 
upon  my  neck  till  she  went  home. 

No,  I  never  had  it,  after  all ;  only  three  days'  touch  of 
varyloid,  that  the  Loon  brought  the  meals  to,  and  Miss 


NUMBER    13.  217 

Cracklejaw  she  sent  up  grapes  ;  and  after  you  have  found 
out  it  is  n't  it,  my  dear,  it  ain't  so  bad  to  be  alone.  First 
two  days  1  did  n't  know,  and  I  thought  a  great  deal  about 
my  little  brother  'Li  'kim,  and  of  bein'  glad  I  had  no  own 
folks,  after  all,  to  take  into  mortal  danger  for  my  sake,  till 
there  fairly  was  a  comfort  in  it,  don't  you  see  ? 

And  now,  my  dear,  if  I  had  time  to  tell  you  about  Mr. 
Hopkinson  and  his  broken  arm,  or  about  Miss  M' Henry 
Dumps's  baby,  or  about  that  matter  in  the  first  floor  rear, 
or  about  Miss  Barker  herself  and  the  invitation  down  to 
dinner,  or  a  thousand  thousand  things  that  took  place  to 
bless  me !  but  I  see  you're  getting  tired,  and  if  I'm  going 
to  tell  a  story  all  about  myself,  I  must  tell  it  I  suppose, 
and  you  '11  excuse  me  for  the  impoliteness,  and  I  '11  make 
it  short  as  possible. 

But,  oh  !  I  wish  you  'd  seen  the  attic  rear  poor  thing  of 
which  I  spoke.  Mercy  Maynard  was  her  name,  and  sales 
woman  in  a  fancy  store,  and  a  little  wild  and  fond  of  dress, 
but  a  modest  woman,  in  spite  of  him,  my  dear;  for  he 
owned  the  store,  and  he  kept  the  wages  down  on  purpose. 
And  she  used  to  come  of  evenings,  and  set  on  that  cricket 
at  my  feet,  and  tell  me ;  and  it  was  a  cursed  story,  that  it 
was,  my  dear  —  may  I  be  forgiven  for  a  little  swearing 
when  I  think  of  him  !  —  and  often  and  often  it  happens  in 
this  town  to  them  poor  girls.  And  there  was  a  time  I 
thought  I'd  lost  her,  for  I  'd  talked  till  I. was  wore  out,  and 
she  got  as  wild  as  wild  with  desperation,  not  knowing  any 
place  to  go  to ;  and  poor  girls  must  earn  their  bread,  my 
dear,  in  spite  of  cursed  men.  And  it  was  n't  much  to  do, 
I  'm  sure,  but  all  I  could  ;  so  I  persuaded  her  and  I  begged 
her  till  she  came.  Says  I :  "  Just  quit,  and  stop  with  me  a 
while,  and  help  me  at  my  work,  till  you  find  more,  two  in 
a  room  being  nigh  half  as  much  a  week,  and  two  to  a  tea 
pot  nothing  more  to  speak  of,  and  twice  the  comfort,"  as 
was  true,  my  dear.  And  so  she  come  and  stayed  till  Mr. 


218  NUMBER   13. 

M'Henry  Dumps  he  found  her  something  in  a  corset  store 
that  a  woman  owned  it,  and  only  peace  and  women  all 
around  her.  I  was  a  little  short  of  work  just  then,  it 's 
true ;  but,  bless  you  !  somehow  we  seemed  to  get  along. 
I  've  often  thought  of  a  thing  she  said  one  night,  and  strok 
ing  of  my  hair  in  a  little  way  she  had.  "  You  poor  old 
dear  !  "  says  she.  "  You  love  your  boardiri'-house  neighbor 
as  yourself,"  says  she.  I  'm  just  so  mean,  my  dear,  I  sup 
pose  I  did  for  her  twice  as  happily  for  hearing  that.  Tt  's 
the  very  Alderney  cream  of  comfort  when  folks  think 
kinder  of  you  than  you  deserve. 

But  it  was  about  this  time  there  come  slowly  growin'  on 
me  that  trouble  and  that  terror  that  drove  all  other  folks' 
troubles  half  out  my  crazy,  selfish  heart. 

It  come  slowly,  and  yet  it  come  sudden  too.  I  '11  put  it 
in  few  words  now  if  I  can,  for  there  's  nothing  in  it  worth 
the  telling  to  make  a  fuss  about. 

It  was  about  my  eyes,  my  dear —  never  very  strong,  and 
sewing  so  constant,  and  perhaps  a  little  with  watching  with 
Miss  Barker  when  she  had  the  fever ;  but,  first  I  knew, 
the  black  work  had  to  lay  by  till  morning;  and  then  it 
couldn't  be  black  work  at  all ;  and  then  I  noticed  that  the 
sewing  in  the  evening  had  to  slip ;  and  sudden,  one  after 
noon,  as  I  sat  hurrying  to  get  the  narrow  velvet  on  Miss 
M'Henry  Dumps's  polonaise,  there  come  to  me  a  dreadful 
thing. 

My  dear,  I  could  n't  thread  my  needle. 

Thinkin'  to  mercy  it  might  be  a  headache,  I  let  it  go 
till  next  day,  and  the  next ;  and  when  it  got  no  different, 
I  put  my  bonnet  on  and  went  out,  sayin'  nothing  to  no 
body,  and  asked  the  doctor. 

My  dear,  I  think  I  know  how  folks  feel  when  they  jump 
into  rivers  in  their  night-gownds,  and  swallow  poison  (which 
must  be  a  most  unpleasant  manner  to  select),  and  even  a 
pistol  or  a  razor  —  any  dreadful,  desperate,  wild,  mad  way 


NUMBER    13.  219 

that  you  can  think  of  of  getting  rid  of  the  life  the  Lord 
has  laid  upon  your  breaking  shoulders.  When  he  told  me 
it  was  cataract,  and  very  doubtful,  but  they  would  try  it 
at  the  hospital  if  I  could  get  in,  I  never  even  said  a  Thank 
you,  Sir.  I  tied  on  my  bonnet  and  come  home,  and  I 
crawled  up  stairs  to  my  little  room  —  my  precious  little 
room,  my  dear,  where  it  was  n't  the  dyin'  light  that  made 
things  look  so  dim  and  strange  to  me  —  and  down  I  sat 
and  locked  the  door,  and  there  I  stayed. 

I  can't  tell  you  how  long  it  was  —  maybe  till  next 
evening,  maybe  days  and  more  ;  I  never  could  exactly  tell. 
Folks  come  and  come.  I  sent  them  all  away.  They 
knocked  and  questioned,  but  I  turned  'em  off.  I  had  to 
turn  it  over  in  my  mind  alone. 

I  turned  it  over  in  a  curious  way.  I  seemed  to  see  my 
self  a-setting  there,  much  as  I  'd  seen  'Li'kim  on  his  knees 
beside  the  bed,  distinct  —  a  miserable  woman,  half  dazed 
and  crazed.  I  seemed  to  set  and  talk  about  myself  as  if  I  'd 
been  one,  of  the  poor  creeturs  in  some  other  room  I  'd  gone 
to  do  for.  And  as  I  set,  I  talked  like  this  :  — 

"  Dependent  on  her  needle.  Poor.  A  woman.  Living 
by  herself.  Beginning  to  grow  old.  No  ftome.  No  folks. 
And  growing  blind.  Oh,  poor  thing  !  " 

Then  I  'd  have  it  over  a  little  different :  — 

"  Growing  blind.  No  home.  No  folks.  Poor.  Liv 
ing  all  alone.  A  woman.  Takes  in  sewing  for  a  living. 
How  sorry  I  am  for  her  !  " 

Then  I  'd  try  it  once  again :  — 

"  An  old  woman.  Took  in  sewing  for  a  living.  Long  gone 
blind.  No  home.  No  folks.  Sent  her  to  the  poor-house. 
There  she  sits.  Stone-blind.  May  live  to  be  eighty.  Poor 
thing !  What  can  I  do  for  her  ?  Oh,  what  can  I  do  ?  " 

It  was  when  this  had  been  going  on  a  while  that,  sudden, 
as  I  sat  there,  Helen  Goldenough,  that  was  dead  and  bur 
ied,  come  walking  up  across  the  room  to  my  poor  eyes  that 


220  NUMBER   13. 

saw  all  things  so  queer.  And  she  took  me  by  the  hand, 
and  down  she  pushed  me  gently  on  my  knees.  And  I  saw 
her  kneel  beside  me,  and  seem  to  take  my  hands  and  lift 
'em  up  —  so  !  And  I  saw  her  talking  —  so  !  And,  my 
dear,  she  says  :  — 

"  Our  mother  who  art  in  heaven" — and  seems  to  wait 
for  me  to  say  it  after.  And  after  thinkin'  of  it  a  little 
while,  I  says  :  — 

"  Our  Father  and  mother  who  art  in  heaven,"  and  then  I 
stopped.  I  felt  easier,  my  dear  —  I  truly  did.  I  sensed  it, 
as  we  used  to  say  to  home,  that  there  was  another  kith  and 
kin  than  that  I  had  n't  got,  and  lovin'er  own  folks  than  the 
own  folks  I  had  lost,  and  I  felt  ashamed,  my  dear  —I  was 
ashamed  to  have  forgot  it,  for  I  was  brought  up  religious 
always,  though  never  quite  settled  in  my  mind  on  justifica 
tion  by  faith  and  the  election  doctrine,  with  a  leanin'  to  im 
mersion,  I  will  confess. 

So  when  I  'd  said  those  words,  and  Helen  Goldenough 
she  'd  seemed  to  go,  I  let  in  Maggie  Flynn,  most  uneasy  and 
crying  at  the  door,  and  told  her  all  about  it. 

My  dear,  it  was  just  three  days  since  the  people  in  the 
house  had  known,  and  I  never,  never  was.  deservin'  of  it, 
when  up  it  come  !  I  sitting  all  forlorn  and  at  my  wits'  end 
in  the  dark,  and  the  Loon  one  mortal  grin  —  I  don't,  indeed, 
believe  no  other  creetur  could,  unless  the  bird  itself.  And 
in  she  brought  the  round  robin  on  a  stone-china  plate,  with 
a  red  doyley  and  two  apples.  Miss  Barker's  compliments 
and  the  house's  love,  she  says ;  and  they  begs  you  to  accept, 
she  says. 

I  '11  get  you  the  paper,  my  dear,  and  let  you  read  it  for 
yourself.  Rather  not  ?  Well,  I  will  try ;  but  it  always 
makes  my  voice  a  little  shaky,  and  Mr.  Hopkinson,  I  think 
it  must  have  been,,  that  drew  it,  for  he  's  a  school-teacher, 
my  dear  ;  and  never  was  there  a  mortal  thing  but  helping 
when  the  arm  was  set,  and  now  and  then  a  stockin'  or  so  ; 
he  'd  got  no  women-folks  to  do  for  him. 


NUMBER    13. 

"  Miss  Barker's  boarders  "  —  (it  begins)  —  "  Miss  Bar 
ker's  boarders  beg  leave  to  send  their  profound  sympathy 
and  sorrow  to  Number  13,  in  the  unexpected  trial  that  has 
fallen  on  that  room.  And  in  token  of  their  grateful  remem 
brance  of  unnumbered  large  and  little  kindnesses  "  —  (my 
dear,  those  are  the  very  words,  though  blush  I  do  to  say  it) 
— "  of  unnumbered  large  and  little  kindnesses  that  they, 
Miss  Barker's  boarders,  have  received  from  the  occupant  of 
that  room  in  this  and  other  times,  and  in  memory  of  her 
endeavors  to  bring  the  spirit  of  a  home  among  so  many 
homeless  people,  and  of  their  great  indebtedness  to  her  for 
much  neighborly,  unselfish  service,  offered  in  a  sweet  and 
modest  manner  peculiar  to  herself,  Miss  Barker's  boarders 
hereby  request  her  to  favor  them  by  accepting  the  inclosed 
trifle,  hoping  it  may  help  to  defray  the  expenses  of  that 
affliction  which  it  has  pleased  Heaven  mysteriously  to  send 
upon  her,  and  wishing  it  might  testify  one  half  of  both  the  sad 
ness  and  the  hope  that  is  felt  throughout  this  house  for  her. 

"  (Signed)  :  M'Henry  Dumps,  Althea  Dumps,  E.  G. 
Hopkinson,  Maggie  Flynn,  T.  Harkness,  John  Cracklejaw, 
May  Cracklejaw,  O.  L.  Smith,  P.  Jones,  Susannah  G. 
Thrasher,  Caleb  Thrasher,  Mercy  Maynard,  E.  P.  Green, 
Sarah  Barker,  Elizabeth  Tudor,  Mary  Ann  Shamway." 

And,  my  dear,  it  was  eighty-five  dollars  and  forty -two 
cents. 

But  I  never  would  have  thought  the  forty -two  cents  of 
them  two  girls  ;  and  Mary  Ann  Shamway's  neuralgy,  I 
never  could  help  her  much,  poor  thing,  do  or  not  do  ;  and 
before  I  could  get  it  into  my  head  that  Elizabeth  Tudor  was 
the  Loon !  To  say  nothing  of  Miss  Barker's  receipt  for 
three  months'  rent,  my  dear.  And  those  strange  gentlemen, 
that  more  than  a  civil  "  Pleasant  morning,  sir  !  "  never  did 
I  have  the  pleasure. 

And  so  I  went  to  the  hospital,  my  pretty,  quite  brave  and 


222  NUMBER    13. 

happy.  And  a  paid  bed  is  a  comfort,  my  dear,  if  go  you  must. 
And  for  all  the  courage  and  all  the  happiness  that  bore  me 
through,  like  wings,  I  have  to  thank  their  generous  way  of 
saying  so.  For,  oh  !  there 's  no  tonic  and  no  ether  to  bear 
pain  and  weakness  on  like  joy,  my  dear ;  and  the  feeling 
that  you  're  cared  for  and  thought  kindly  of,  comes  nighest 
to  the  name  of  joy  of  any  that  I  know. 

So  I  left  my  little  room,  my  dear,  saying  good-by  to  all 
the  things,  to  wonder  if  I  'd  ever  see  them  more  ;  the  Tur 
key-red  valance,  and  the  tea-pot,  and  the  cricket  in  especial, 
and  Mercy  Maynard's  ivy  growing  in  the  bottle  over  there. 
Eyes  looked  out  of  them  plain  and  scrimpy  things,  my  dear, 
to  my  eyes,  and  voices  spoke  from  them  to  answer  me,  and 
grace  and  blessin's  seemed  to  stand  in  'em  and  reach  to  me, 
and  seem  to  say  :  — 

"  Goin'  to  the  hospital.  Goin'  to  be  cured.  Pretty  well 
off.  Hosts  of  friends.  And  a  round  robin.  Need  n't  worry. 
Coming  back  to  us.  Not  so  much  a  happy  woman  as  a 
quiet.  Plenty  of  folks.  Our  Father  and  our  mother  who 
art "  — 

And  then  I  shut  the  door,  my  dear,  and,  as  I  told  you, 
went  and  bore  it  through. 

Well !  well !  well !  it  was,  oh  !  the  loveliest  spring  night, 
my  dear,  when  I  come  home.  And,  oh  !  so  much  beyond 
my  grumpiness  and  deserving  when  first  they  told  me  all 
was  going  well.  Never  did  I  half  believe  nor  understand  it 
till  the  very  night  they  drove  me  home.  It  was  of  an  April 
evening,  and  the  grass  was  springing  greenish  here  and  there 
in  spots  upon  the  Common,  and  pleasant  to  the  eyes,  if 
weak,  my  dear,  in  driving  by.  And  the  same  I  thought 
with  the  dyin'  light,  a  pink  and  gentle  one,  and  many  thin, 
high  clouds.  So  many  little  boys  a-whistling  in  the  street, 
and  standin'  on  their  heads  to  scare  the  wits  of  you,  I  never 
saw.  And  I  counted  twenty  little  girls  a-laughing,  happy 


NUMBER    13.  223 

as  the  angels,  between  that  hospital  and  home.  And  warm, 
too ;  and  so  mild  !  One  of  the  hospital  doctors  he  come 
with  me,  for  they  were  kind  as  kind,  and  him  and  the  driver 
they  got  me  out  the  carriage  as  if  I  'd  been  the  Queen. 

My  dear,  for  all  the  fits  of  blues  and  undeserving  may  I 
hope  to  be  forgiven  !  But  I  was  kind  of  hustled  into  the 
parlors,  and  in  a  sort  of  soft,  low  light,  and  very  thoughtful 
of  my  eyes  in  'em,  all  smilin'  to  their  eyebrows,  there  stood 
the  house  —  the  whole  of  'em,  all  in  a  row,  my  dear,  to 
greet  me  home,  they  said.  And  up  they  come,  and  like  to 
been  the  end  of  me,  and  Susannah  Greenwich  too.  Some 
they  shook  my  hands  and  some  they  kissed  me,  but  they 
were  women,  only  poor  old  Mr.  Hopkinson,  that  you  must 
excuse ;  and  some  they  cried  and  some  they  laughed,  and 
Miss  Barker  in  the  middle,  with  a  tea-table  spread  out,  and 
a  little  speech,  with  ice-cream  that  the  Loon  she  tripped  and 
stuck  her  elbow  through ;  but  if  you  did  n't  happen  to  see 
it,  it  tasted  just  as  well. 

But  there  was  a  strange  gentleman  among  'em  that  I  'd 
never  seen;  and  he  did  n't  come  to  shake  hands  quite  nat 
ural  with  the  rest,  not  ever  having  had  the  pleasure  ;  but  he 
stood  apart,  a  little  sober  ;  and  Mary  Ann  Sham  way,  with 
her  poor  head  tied  up,  she  said  it  was  his  way,  and  there 
about  a  fortnight,  and  a  little  sickly,  when  I  went  to  kiss 
the  Dumpses'  baby.  I  'in  a  little  bashful  with  strange  gen 
tlemen,  and  though  he  kinder  looked  at  me,  I  did  n't  trouble 
with  him  not  to  notice  him  particular ;  and  the  doctor  said 
too  much  excitement  and  the  pleasure  would  n't  do,  for  he 
stayed  to  the  ice-cream,  as  Miss  Barker  invited  him  most 
prettily ;  and  1  thought  the  Loon  would  be  the  death  of 
him,  in  spite  of  tryin'  to  be  most  polite  and  handin'  Mercy 
Maynard  out. 

So  by  and  by  I  creep  up  softly  to  my  own  old  little  room, 
not  to  disturb  their  pleasure,  and  unbeknownst  to  most. 

There  it  was,  niy  dear,     And  the  pretty  shade  against  the 


224  NUMBER   13. 

gas,  and  a  pink  geranium  in  the  window,  with  Mercy  May- 
nard's  love,  and  the  towel  rack  from  Maggie  Flynn ;  and  I 
never  did  know  who  put  the  English  breakfast  tea  into  the 
tea-caddy,  but,  by  the  spillin'  round,  I  knew  it  was  the  Loon 
that  tried  to  set  the  tea-pot  boilin'  ready.  And  as  for  that 
chromio  upon  the  wall,  I  suspect  Miss  Cracklejaw,  but  never 
did  I  know ;  nor  the  five  roses  and  smilax,  with  a  bit  of 
heliotrope,  upon  the  table,  and  the  little  vase. 

It  was  n't  till  next  mornin'  that  I  found  the  note  upon 
the  bureau  from  Aunt  Hannah,  sayin'  how  she  'd  but  just 
heard  of  my  condition,  and  that  Peter  he  had  married  Sarah 
Amelia  Bolingbroke  —  her  that  was  Miss  Patterson  before 
her  first  —  an  excellent  woman,  but  fully  equal  to  it  if  there 
was  any  snappin'  of  you  up,  and  havin'  had  her  hand  in  once 
besides.  And  she  said  would  I  come  on  and  make  a  visit, 
by-gones  bein'  by-gones,  and  her  health  but  poorly  ? 

That  was  n't  till  next  mornin',  as  I  tell  you.  And,  oh  ! 
my  dear,  as  I  set  down  alone,  so  grateful  and  so  happy,  no 
cur  that  runs  is  meaner  than  was  I  to  take  exception  to  my 
lot.  But  after  all  their  kindness,  they  was  n't  own  folks, 
was  they  ?  And  across  my  feelings  there  ran  a  little  chilly 
longing,  something  as  if  your  soul  had  taken  cold.  I  could  n't 
get  my  little  brother  'Li'kim  out  of  my  head,  do  what  I 
could.  And  all  his  little  ways  come  up  to  me,  and  the  feel 
of  his  fingers,  don't  you  know,  and  wonderin'  what  it  would 
be  like  if  he  had  grown  like  other  folks'  brothers,  faithful 
and  considerate,  and  been  by  me  through  my  troubles,  and 
been  there  to  set  down  in  your  pretty  room  and  call  you  by 
your  Christian  name  you  'd  most  forgotten,  being  mostly 
Miss  in  that  great  house. 

And  as  I  set,  I  seemed  to  see  him,  though  fainter  than  it 
was  before  the  operation,  kneeling  by  the  bed.  But  the 
most  peculiar  prayer,  my  dear  !  Like  this  :  — 

"  Cured.  Come  home.  Every  body  glad  to  see  her. 
Better  blessed  than  she  deserves.  Grumblin'  over  what  she 


NUMBER    13.  225 

has  n't  got.  Ought  to  be  ashamed.  Got  a  cataract  upon 
her  heart.  Ought  to  have  it  operated  on.  Hopeless  case." 

It  was  then,  my  dear,  that  there  come  a  knock  upon  the 
door,  and  up  I  jumps  to  wipe  the  mean,  ungrateful  tears  and 
let  it  in. 

My  dear,  it  was  a  gentleman  —  the  strange  gentleman  I 
saw  lookiii'  at  me  now  and  then  down-stairs. 

Says  I,  "  Sir,  most  happy,  if  I  had  the  honor,  but  the 
wrong  room,  perhaps,"  says  I. 

Says  he,  "  No  ;  the  right  room  —  the  right  room,  I  am 
sure,  thank  God !  "  says  he. 

For  something  in  his  voice,  I  don't  know  what,  I  began 
to  tremble  very  sudden  ;  and  for  something  in  his  way,  I 
can't  explain,  I  thought  I  should  have  lost  my  wits.  And 
there  was  that  drawin'  drew  me  to  that  unknown  man  —  I 
can't  begin  to  tell  you  —  till  up  he  steps  and  shuts  the  door. 
And,  oh !  my  pretty,  I  see  it  in  your  eyes  —  you  under 
stand  it  all ! 

He  never  was  a  boy  of  many  words,  my  dear,  and  all  he 
says  was  this  :  — 

"  If  your  little  brother  'Li'kim  come  back,  sick  and  sorry, 
would  you  care  to  live  with  him  ?  "  says  he.  "  I  can  go 
away  again,"  says  he,  "  if  you  think  you  'd  rather  not." 

And,  oh,  the  way  the  stars  shone  through  the  window 
hours  and  hours  !  And  the  people  laughing  down  below  as 
if  all  the  world  had  got  its  own  folks  back,  my  dear !  And 
the  tea-pot  that  the  Loon  had  spilled,  it  bubbled  up  and 
bubbled  up,  and  the  flowers  on  the  table,  and  all  the  dear 
old  things  set  looking  on.  And  like  a  little  child  that 
hears  a  fairy  tale  I  set  and  heard  'em  say  :  — 

"  Happy  woman !  No  cataract.  Cured  !  cured  !  cured  ! 
The  light  of  her  eyes  has  come  back  !  Oh,  happy,  undeserving 
blessed  woman  !  Cured  !  cured  !  cured  !  " 

And  if  you  think  I  asked  him  many  questions  to  pry  into 
15 


226  NUMBER    13. 

his  poor  past  life,  my  dear,  you  're  wrong,  that 's  all.  And 
if  folks  tell  you  how  he  's  ailing  and  works  irregular  and 
a  burden,  never  do  you  listen  to  'em  —  not  a  word  of  that, 
my  dear,  for  the  tenderest  and  the  lovin'est,  there  never 
was  a  brother  more  so. 

And  up  the  Loon  comes,  when  the  people  wondered,  and 
Miss  Barker  red  and  white,  for  there  sat  I  in  his  lap  a  sight 
to  see. 

"  If  it  had  been  a  physician,"  says  Miss  Barker,  "  at  such 
hours,  or  even  a  clergyman,  if  in  spiritual  need.  But  even 
if  it  was  —  and  he  told  me  he  was  flour  and  grain  —  such  a 
state  of  things  is  most  unnecessary,  and  I  never  would  have 
thought  it  of  you  if  I  died !  "  says  Miss  Barker,  mad  as 
mad. 

So  when  I  tell  her,  like  to  die  of  laughing,  down  we  go. 
And  all  the  house  is  there,  and  Mercy  Maynard  in  pink 
ribbons,  and  the  gas  as  bright !  And  away  at  the  other  end 
I  could  see  the  Loon  a-siugeiii'  her  hair  against  it  while  I 
spoke.  And  I  went  in  upon  his  arm,  and  says,  for  Miss 
Barker  'd  let  a  whisper  of  it  round  :  — 

"  Dear  friends,  you  've  come  to  wish  me  joy  on  my  great 
happiness  to-night,  and  I  thank  you  kindly.  There  are 
eyes  of  the  body,"  says  I,  "  and  eyes  of  the  soul,  and  there  's 
blindness  comes  to  both,  and  cures  sometimes.  And  the 
light  of  the  eyes  of  my  body  and  the  light  of  the  eyes  of  my 
soul  have  come  back  both  at  once :  and  may  yours  be  as 
bright  forever,  and  bless  you  all !  "  says  I. 


TWO  HUNDRED   AND  TWO. 


THE  town  of  Telephone  is  ten  miles  from  Boston.  It  is 
comfortably  situated  on  the  Breakwater  Branch  of  the  Hap 
piness  and  Energy  Railroad,  whose  trains  leave  the  Boston 
and  Mexico  Depot  at  all  inconvenient  hours  of  the  day  and 
evening,  reaching  Telephone  when  they  feel  like  it,  and  de 
parting  at  the  same  time,  —  the  half  or  even  the  whole  of  a 
minute  in  advance  of  their  time-tables  being  looked  upon, 
perhaps,  by  the  corporation  as  a  delicate  atonement  for 
avoidable  delays  in  arrival,  and  as  tending  in  the  long  run 
to  exhibit  the  law  of  compensation  and  the  equality  of 
things. 

No  one  was  ever  heard,  however,  to  criticise  the  railway 
communication  of  Telephone  with  the  outer  world  except 
the  house-hunters  ;  and  as  this  long-suffering  class  of  society 
formed  the  larger  part  of  the  passengers,  naturally  little  at 
tention  was  paid  to  their  preferences. 

So  at  least  a  man  was  thinking,  somewhat  sulkily,  one 
bitter  day  last  November,  as  —  having  lost  his  dinner, 
gained  a  sore  throat,  and  paid  Telephone's  most  aspiring 
price  for  carriage  hire  to  prospect  the  town  in  forty-five 
minutes,  and  find  a  home  for  a  lifetime  before  the  two  o'clock 
train  went  —  he  found  himself  gaping  at  the  empty  track, 
whose  conscious  rails  trembled  yet  with  the  thrill  of  de 
parted  force.  He  had  not  only  lost  his  train  ;  he  had  failed 
to  find  his  house.  Any  under-graduate  in  human  experience 
will  comprehend  how  heavily  the  annoyance  of  the  one  cir 
cumstance,  was  heightened  by  the  existence  of  the  other. 


228  TWO   HUNDRED   AND   TWO. 

"Didn't  lose  the  train,  did  you  now?"  The  station- 
mistress  said  this.  She  spoke  in  a  tone  of  cautious  sym 
pathy,  not  unlike  that  with  which  we  approach  the  thresh 
old  where  we  are  uncertain  whether  death  has  recently 
preceded  us. 

She  came  out  from  her  little  "  parlor  "  into  the  deserted 
waiting-room.  Beyond  the  swinging  and  uncertain  door  one 
could  perceive  the  colors  of  a  very  modern  carpet,  a  paper 
dado,  German  ivies,  an  air-tight  stove,  decorated  blacking 
bottles,  a  child  framing  chromos  in  colored  straws,  a  girl  in 
a  pullback  and  imitation  lace  frill  thrumming  polkas  at  a 
piano  with  its  legs  in  calico  pantaloons,  rag  mats,  a  cat,  and 
the  odors  of  beefsteak  and  doughnuts.  As  the  woman 
stood  in  the  doorway  a  baby  crawled  after  her,  pushing 
aside  her  flounced  alpaca  skirts,  and  from  beneath  them 
regarded  the  passenger  with  the  marble  calm  peculiar  to  a 
child  of  the  railway,  to  whom  men,  machinery,  and  other 
sources  of  disturbance  are  as  unimportant  as  a  daily  lul 
laby. 

The  mother's  ankle,  which  the  -child  first  generously  re 
vealed,  and  then  obligingly  called  attention  to  by  clasping 
it  with  one  hand  and  pounding  it  with  the  other  in  a  par 
ticularly  absent-minded  way  —  the  mother's  ankle  was  in 
cased  in  a  shapely  Balbriggan  stocking  of  striped  red  and 
white,  which  lost  itself  in  the  outline  of  a  well-fitting  "  New 
port  tie." 

"  Beg  pardon,  madam  ?  "  ,said  the  passenger.  He  was 
wondering  if  he  had  sworn  a  little  about  the  train.  He  did 
not  know  that  there  were  women  about.  What  a  consum 
mately  American  scene  it  was  in  there  behind  that  self- 
conscious,  superior,  jealous  door  !  Comfortable  enough, 
too.  They  had  a  right  to  feel  superior,  these  people  with 
houses.  He  would  have  accepted  five  rooms  in  a  railway 
station  himself  then,  not  ungratefully.  It  might  well  be 
jealous,  the  door  that  creaked  guard  upon  the  blacking  bot 
tles  and  the  kitten  and  the  baby. 


TWO    HUNDEED    AND   TWO.  229 

He  felt  to  the  full  at  that  moment  the  indefinable,  eternal 
aristocracy  of  home,  wondering  if  he  had  ever  felt  it  before. 
She  might  put  her  piano  in  calico  trousers  to  the  end  of  her 
days,  this  high-cheeked  woman;  but  she  did  not  invite 
strange  gentlemen  into  the  room  where  her  little  daughter 
sat  practicing  in  the  pull-back  and  the  frill. 

"  I  'm  sorry  you  lost  it,"  pursued  the  station-mistress, 
with  some  vain  effort  to  disunite  the  baby  and  the  Balbrig- 
gan  stocking  ;  "  and  your  dinner  too,  I  '11  dare  say  ?  Next 
one  goes  at  quarter  to  five.  Hope  you'll  set  down  and 
make  yerself  as  comfortable  as  you  can.  I  '11  turn  on  the 
draught  a  mite  ;  it 's  growing  cold.  There  !  There 's  a  lady 
I  've  got  to  speak  to.  She  left  a  bundle  of  salary  here. 
They  'most  always  leave  something  —  pocket-books  and 
parasols  and  arctics  ;  we  have  one  man  always  leave  sassin- 
gers.  They  come  from  Boston  dead  beat  out,  and  so  they 
drop  things  —  butter,  and  silk  dresses,  and  no  end  of  neck 
ties  and  that.  I  '11  wait  till  she  gits  along.  It  seemed  a 
pity  to  have  her  salary  spile.  She  can't  afford  salary  none 
too  often." 

"  It  is  cold,  as  you  say,"  suggested  the  passenger,  idly, 
"  and  the  mud  is  not  yet  frozen  stiff.  Allow  me  ;  I  will 
hand  the  package  to  the  lady.  Oblige  me  by  staying  in 
doors  with  the  baby  —  as  you  should,"  he  added,  with  un 
conscious  autocracy.  It  seemed  to  him  unnatural  that  a 
woman  with  a  baby  should  go  out-of-doors.  It  usually  did, 
he  thought,  but  he  had  never,  perhaps,  recognized  this  es 
sentially  masculine  train  of  logic  in  himself  before.  She 
should  sit  down,  in  the  clean  red  and  white  striped  stock 
ings,  under  the  German  ivies,  and  watch  those  patient 
frames  go  fitting  themselves  under  impatient  little  fingers, 
colored  straw  to  colored  straw. 

It  was  not  until  he  got  out  into  the  keen  air  that  he  re 
membered  how  much  beefsteak  and  doughnuts  this  pictur 
esque  course  of  action  involved  breathing. 


230  TWO    HUNDRED   AND   TWO. 

This  lady  now  who  had  lost  her  "  salary  "  —  As  he  ex 
plained  his  errand  in  a  word,  standing  before  her  with  lifted 
hat,  he  caught  himself  wondering  incoherently  whether  she 
liked  it,  facing  the  full  east  wind.  She  stood  with  her  face 
to  the  marshes,  beyond  whose  pale  gray  tides  the  other  tides 
of  the  sea  could  be  neither  seen  nor  heard.  Yet  the  air 
was  salt  with  them ;  he  could  taste  them  with  his  dinner- 
less  lips.  But  the  lady  was  protected  with  a  veil  of  heavily 
figured,  old-fashioned  lace ;  perhaps  she  did  not  taste  the 
salt.  At  all  events,  she  had  her  celery,  probably  her  dinner 
too,  and  a  house. 

The  passenger  put  on  his  hat  again  and  dreamily  returned 
to  the  station.  As  the  celery  lady  walked  on,  with  rather  a 
bounding  step  for  a  woman  who  could  have  been  no  longer 
in  her  first  youth  (he  should  judge  by  the  gravity  of  her 
dress  and  the  repose  of  her  carriage),  he  bluntly  wished  he 
had  some  more  women  to  think  about  before  five  o'clock. 
Probably  the  station-mistress  had  shut  her  Balbriggan  stock 
ings  away  with  the  piano  legs  by  this  time.  He  had  a  great 
mind  to  knock,  and  ask  her  to  let  the  cat  come  out  and  stay 
with  him.  Not  the  baby.  He  would  n't  ask  for  the  baby. 
It  would  probably  attack  the  hem  of  his  pantaloons  to  hunt 
for  striped  stockings  —  and  his  were  a  pale  gray.  Then  it 
would  be  disappointed,  and  perhaps  cry.  Besides,  he  was 
muddy. 

But  the  baby  was  already  there  before  him ;  the  mother 
held  it  deftly  under  one  arm  while  she  poked  the  fire  in  the 
sad  cylinder  stove  with  a  cheerful  muscle. 

"  How  large  is  this  metropolis  ? "  asked  the  passenger, 
abruptly,  coming  to  warm  his  hands  before  the  burning 
heart  of  the  coals,  which  acquired  a  preternatural  homelike- 
ness  from  the  fact  that  it  was  the  only  spot  of  comfort  or 
of  color  in  the  bare  room  ;  it  was  clean,  though,  that  room  : 
they  always  were  when  your  station-master  was  a  woman. 

"  Sir  ?  " 


TWO    HUNDRED    AND   TWO.  231 

"  How  many  people  are  there  in  this  town  ?  " 

"  Two  thousand." 

"  How  old  is  it  ?  " 

"  Two  years." 

"  Two  years  !     And  all  these  houses  ?  " 

"  There  ain't  a  house  in  this  town,  sir,  hain't  been  built 
within  two  years  —  only  one." 

"  And  how  old,  pray,  is  that  ?  " 

"  Two  hundred." 

"  This  is  not  a  common  state  of  things/'  said  the  passen 
ger,  after  a  pause. 

"  We  would  n't  have  that,"  pursued  the  station-mistress, 
in  the  regretful  tone  of  one  who  is  explaining  away  a  blem 
ish  on  a  friend's  character,  "  but  for  the  b'und'ry  line." 

"  The  —  what  kind  of  line  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes.  When  they  laid  us  out  they  cut  the  b'und'ry 
line  acrost  Palestine,  and  cut  this  lady  right  through ;  and 
so  we  hed  to  take  her.  And  that 's  how  she  happens  to  be 
so  old ;  for  Palestine  is  full  of  that  kind  of  folks,  and  the 
rest  of  us  so  young,  sir.  There  's  three  first-rate  chances  up 
that  way  —  two  sales  and  one  rent,  besides  a  barn  —  and 
not  too  near  the  steam-shovel." 

"  The  'steam-shovel  ?"  echoed  the  passenger. 

"  Why,  yes,"  said  the  station-mistress,  closing  the  stove 
door  with  a  snap  of  superior  intelligence.  "  Don't  you 
know  ?  They  use  it  for  building  the  aqueduct,  and  for 
gravel  trains,  and  all  those  things.  Folks  don't  always  like 
it,  because  it  shovels  all  night.  Some  take  it  to  heart  so, 
they  move  away.  But  you  hev  to  pay  higher  as  you  get 
off  from  it.  There  's  a  good  many  things  to  consider  in  buy 
ing  house  lots  in  Telephone." 

"  So  it  seems,"  said  the  passenger.  "  I  think  I  '11  run  out, 
if  I  've  got  three  hours  to  wait,  and  look  at  those  places  op 
posite  the  house  from  Palestine.  I  surely  have  seen  none 
such." 


232  TWO   HUNDRED   AND   TWO. 

"  I  would  if  I  was  you,"  said  the  station-mistress.  She 
seemed  to  have  changed  her  mind  about  something  she  was 
going  to  say  to  the  passenger,  speaking  with  a  slight  re 
serve,  as  to  a  possible  neighbor  of  whom  one  knew  nothing. 
She  gathered  the  baby  into  her  neck  and  turned  away. 
She  shut  the  door  upon  her  sacred  little  daughter  and  the 
pull-back  and  the  polka. 

She  was  at  home,  thought  the  passenger,  as  he  turned  out 
into  the  now  fast-rising  wind,  and  smacked  his  hungry  lips 
again,  to  taste  the  salt  from  the  unseen  sea. 

Miss  Vesta  Rollinstall  came  and  looked  at  the  clouds  with 
a  gentle  sigh.  Standing  in  the  street  below,  one  could 
almost  have  seen  her  sigh.  She  was  not  a  sighing  woman, 
either.  Her  wooden  house  was  gray,  but  not  with  paint ; 
gray,  too,  was  the  sleeve  of  her  cashmere  dress  which  thrust 
the  gray  blind  back,  and  held  an  ashes-of-roses  curtain  half 
drawn,  as  if  reluctant  to  shut  out  the  bleached  grass  in  the 
front  yard,  the  black  trunks  and  branches  of  the  few  and 
faithful  elms  that  the  "  b'und'ry  line  "  had  left  her,  the  col 
orless  gravel  heaps  in  the  empty  corner  lot,  the  dull  outline 
of  the  aqueduct,  the  gray  paint  (mixed  with  kerosene)  of 
the  opposite  empty  house,  and  the  grayer  hue  of  the  bend 
ing  and  more  empty  heavens.  She  was  reluctant.  She 
stood  longer  than  usual  on  these  pallid  November  nights 
taking  her  last  look  at  the  outer  world,  dreading  to  light 
the  old  lamps  which  had  not  yet  yielded  the  field  to  that 
puffy  and  expensive  suburban  gas ;  slow  to  acknowledge 
that  night  had  come  ;  unready  to  admit  by  this  mute  leave- 
taking  of  her  neighbors  that  it  was  time  to  turn  the  old-fash 
ioned  bolt  in  the  uneven  front  door,  and  to  know  that  there 
would  be  no  occasion  to  open  it  again  till  she  peered  out, 
shivering  in  her  dressing-gown,  at  six  o'clock  next  morning, 
to  pull  in  the  little  pint  can  that  the  milk-man  would  leave 
at  three. 


TWO    HUNDRED   AND   TWO.  233 

She  did  not  even  keep  a  dog.  The  Rollinstalls  never 
had. 

The  Rollinstalls,  it  is  needless  to  say,  were  a  very  old 
family ;  none  older  in  Palestine.  Miss  Vesta  prided  her 
self  upon  being  too  good  an  American  to  remember  this 
fact  —  and  accordingly  seldom  forgot  it.  She  had  acceded 
cheerfully  to  the  geographical  and  political  fate  which  had 
expatriated  her  into  this  truly  representative  American  com 
munity  with  the  absurd  name  and  the  absurder  aspirations, 
feeling  it  to  be  her  duty ;  parted  even  with  the  ancestral  elms 
and  the  apple  orchard,  to  make  way  for  the  Happiness  and 
Energy  Railroad,  without  an  audible  groan.  Many  of  her 
Palestine  friends  had  moved  to  town ;  Miss  Vesta  some 
times  wondered  why.  Now  and  then  they  came  out  to 
lunch  with  her.  Others  had  died ;  for  Miss  Vesta  was  no 
longer  young.  Some  had  married,  which  amounted  to  the 
same  thing.  Miss  Vesta  lived  very  much  alone.  As  years 
went  on  she  sometimes  felt  as  if  that  "  b'und'ry  line,"  in 
visible,  intangible,  unassailable  thing  as  it  was,  had,  in  deed 
and  truth,  cut  her  off  from  her  old  familiar  life  into  this 
new  and  unnatural  one,  in  which  she  felt  herself  as  sol 
itary  among  the  bustling  young  couples  who  gossiped  and 
laughed  and  trusted  their  way  along,  with  unpaid  debts  and 
uncounted  babies,  as  the  gambrel-roofed,  unpainted  house 
itself,  set  wistfully  down  among  its  pert  and  peaked  neigh 
bors. 

In  pleasant  weather  she  had  a  theory  that  she  did  not 
think  about  these  things.  But  when  it  was  stormy,  as  to 
night,  she  could  not  deny  that  she  hated  it  all  —  yes,  all ; 
the  whole  new,  shiny,  vulgar  sight ;  the  little  square  lots 
with  the  turned-up  turf,  in  which  no  tree  nor  shrub  had 
found  a  shelter,  not  even  a  make-shift  of  an  arbor-vitas, 
fresh  from  the  nursery,  and  tied  shivering  to  a  stake,  like  a 
baby  learning  to  walk  in  a  baby-jumper ;  where  the  human 
babies  played  about  in  the  mud,  while  their  fathers  painted 


234  TWO   HUNDRED    AND   TWO. 

the  fences  and  put  on  silver  door-plates,  and  their  mothers 
wore  trailing  calico  wrappers  on  week-days  and  velveteen 
suits  on  Sundays,  and  kept  the  blinds  of  the  parlor  shut. 
She  hated  the  rows  of  cheap  houses,  all  alike ;  she  hated  the 
signs  put  out,  "  For  Sale,"  or  "  To  Let ; "  the  shabby  paint 
peeling  off;  the  smell  of  the  concrete  sidewalks;  the  bar 
barous  steam-shovel ;  the  gangs  of  laborers  putting  water 
works  into  streets  whose  existence  she  had  not  heard  of  a 
month  ago  ;  the  lines  of  lank  men  pouring  every  day  to  and 
from  the  business  trains  ;  the  serenity  of  their  uncultivated 
and  unthoughtful  faces  :  why,  the  half  of  them  were  mort 
gaged  over  the  depth  of  soul  and  body  for  those  square  little 
showy  homes  of  theirs  ! 

Miss  Vesta  felt  very  lonely  whenever  she  began  to  hate 
anything.  So  now,  as  she  stood  reluctantly  clinging  to  the 
ashes-of-roses  curtains,  casting  her  eyes  up  and  down  the 
empty  streets,  they  slowly  darkened  and  blurred ;  one  quiet 
tear  rolled  and  fell  upon  her  gray  dress. 

"  Nonsense  !  "  said  Miss  Vesta,  with  a  start.  "  Salt  spoils 
cashmere !  "  and  she  went  for  the  hartshorn  bottle  to  rub 
off  the  spot.  Miss  Vesta  did  not  often  cry. 

When  she  came  back,  resolutely  this  time,  to  draw  the 
curtain  close,  she  saw,  across  the  gloom  of  the  rapidly -dark 
ening  street,  and  through  the  drizzle  of  the  rain  which  now 
fell  steadily,  that  lights  were  astir  in  the  opposite  house. 
She  stood  for  a  minute  looking  over.  It  was  Mr.  Jobbs, 
with  tenants  possible,  or  perhaps  even  actual.  It  often  hap 
pened.  She  was  used  to  it  —  rather  liked  to  see  it.  Of  all 
these  people  who  came  out  house-hunting  on  the  afternoon 
trains,  Jobbs  would  decoy  one  some  day  to  sign  the  lease  of 
his  leaky  house  ;  the  family  would  have  the  rheumatism, 
but  she  would  have  neighbors.  Possibly  —  who  knew  ?  — 
pleasant  neighbors  like  the  dear  old  lady  Church  who  had 
pneumonia  there  last  year;  or  the  young  Pettiwinkles, 
with  the  very  clean  baby,  on  the  corner ;  or  even  the  Pur- 


TWO   HUNDRED   AND    TWO.  235 

chases,  whom  she  liked  so  much  when  she  helped  them 
through  with  the  scarlet  fever ;  or  the  Adamses,  who  sub 
scribed  to  her  mission  Sunday-school. 

It  was  noticeable  how  perceptibly  Miss  Vesta's  opinion 
of  Telephone  rose  as  she  stood  looking  at  the  cheerful  flicker 
of  Mr.  Jobbs's  kerosene  lamp  from  empty  room  to  empty 
room  across  there  in  the  dusk,  and  the  broken  outline  of 
the  shadows  that  the  two  men  made,  seen  through  the  un 
curtained  windows  as  Jobbs  threw  back  the  blinds.  The 
Jobbs  shadow  was  short,  square,  and  familiar.  The  tenant 
shadow  was  tall  and  strange,  yet,  after  the  moment's  glance, 
seemed  not  unfamiliar  either.  This  struck  Miss  Vesta  pleas 
antly  as  she  drew  her  curtain  in  good  faith  at  last,  shrinking 
suddenly  back,  as  if  she  had  herself  been  visible  behind  the 
small  green  panes  of  her  old  window.  Perhaps  he  would 
be  a  gentlemanly  person  with  a  nice  wife.  Miss  Vesta  felt 
starved  sometimes  for  a  woman  —  a  woman  one  would  care 
to  see,  perhaps,  twice  a  week.  In  Palestine  how  she  and 
Susy  Hemlock  used  to  "  run  in  "  every  day  !  There  seemed 
no  place  to  "  run  in  "  to  in  Telephone.  And  Susy  was  dead. 
And  it  was  time  to  light  the  astral  lamp  and  the  kitchen 
lamp,  and  to  put  on  the  kettle.  She  must  wash  the  celery 
too,  which  would  not  keep  till  to-morrow. 

It  was  scarcely  a  Palestine  custom,  eating  celery  for  sup 
per.  Miss  Vesta  crushed  it  delicately  and  doubtfully.  She 
liked  to  do  things  as  she  was  brought  up  to  do  them.  She 
washed  her  solitary  tea-cup  and  her  two  silver  spoons  and 
her  lonely  goblet  daintily  by  themselves  in  the  Dresden 
bowl  upon  the  table,  just  as  she  used  to  do  when  she  "  kept 
help,"  before  her  Michigan  Central  stock  went  down  and 
she  had  no  one  to  tell  her  that  it  was  time  to  sell.  After 
she  had  wiped  the  silver  and  glass  with  delicate  fingers  upon 
a  fine  old  red  and  blue  fruit  doyley  by  the  light  of  the  astral, 
she  went  into  the  kitchen,  turned  up  her  sleeves,  turned  up 
her  dress,  put  on  an  apron,  and  "  did  "  the  rest  of  the  dishes 
by  the  little  brass  kitchen  lamp. 


236  TWO    HUNDRED   AND    TWO. 

After  this  she  turned  down  her  sleeves,  with  darned 
Valenciennes  at  the  wrist,  turned  down  the  skirt  of  the 
cashmere  (which  had  been  her  "  afternoon  dress  "  for  seven 
years),  went  into  the  silent  parlor  and  lighted  the  fire  in  the 
fire-place,  and  sat  down  alone.  She  did  not  light  that  fire 
often.  Open  fires  are  expensive  company.  When  it  stormed, 
she  sometimes  allowed  herself  the  luxury.  She  sat  in  a  low 
cushioned  rocking-chair,  in  the  irregular  light.  She  had  a 
pink  ribbon  at  her  throat,  over  her  gray  dress  ;  it  was  of 
the  old-fashioned  rose  pink  now  so  hard  to  find,  not  a  scorch 
of  magenta  in  it,  pure  as  a  blush-bud  on  a  June  day,  deep 
ening  as  one  looked  at  it.  Stiff  little  roses  were  painted  on 
it  in  watercolors.  Susy  Hemlock  painted  that  ribbon  for 
her  one  day  ;  she  had  a  cold  —  could  n't  come  —  could  n't 
wait  —  Jared  brought  it  over. 

Miss  Vesta  rose  and  walked  about  the  room  two  or  three 
times.  The  Rollinstall  ladies  often  had  that  trick  of  pacing 
the  room  —  a  habit  which  only  women  of  independent  char 
acter  and  circumstances  are  apt  to  have,  I  believe.  The 
Rollinstalls  had  always  felt  at  liberty  to  do  as  they  chose. 
Usually,  however,  they  chose  to  do  largely  the  same  things. 
When  they  married,  they  married  clergymen  or  lawyers ; 
brought  up  their  children  to  have  the  measles  under  al 
lopathic  treatment,  to  brush  their  teeth  three  times  a  day, 
and  never  to  go  to  church  twice  a  Sunday  before  they  were 
five  years  old.  When  they  did  not  marry,  they  kept  house  ; 
no  female  Rollinstall  went  to  live  with  her  relatives  unless 
it  were  a'  very  clear  case  that  she  was  the  giver,  not  the 
receiver,  of  benefits  by  so  doing  ;  they  never  quartered 
themselves  on  young  married  brothers  or  struggling  male 
cousins  ;  a  Rolliustall  preferred  her  own  household,  if  it 
were  in  an  attic.  No  one  ever  questioned  the  suitability  of 
any  such  arrangement  which  members  of  her  family  might 
make.  Miss  Vesta  herself  was  but  thirty-five  when  her 
mother  died,  and  there  was  a  second  cousin  who  took  a  flat 


TWO   HUNDRED   AND  TWO.  237 

alone  at  twenty-six.  But  hers  died.  Jane  Rollinstall  bore 
forever  about  her  the  sacred  and  sweet  shield  of  maiden 
widowhood.  Happy  Jane  ! 

Miss  Vesta  said  "Happy  Jane  !  "  aloud,  pacing  bitterly 
to  and  fro.  The  storm  had  now  come  on  heavily,  and  she 
could  hear  the  wind  beat  up  and  down  the  level,  lonely 
street.  Miss  Yesta's  had  not  died.  Now  and  then  Miss 
Vesta  remembered  this.  It  was  a  luxury  to  think  about 
him  at  all,  like  the  open  lire,  only  to  be  indulged  in  on 
stormy  nights.  He  had  not  died.  Oh  that  he  had !  Oh 
that  he  had  !  Sometimes,  if  it  stormed  very  hard,  Miss 
Vesta  said  this  too  aloud,  crying  passionately  out.  Some 
times  she  thought  if  this  had  been  so,  how  blessed  she 
would  be.  But  he  did  not  die  ;  he  only  got  tired  of  wait 
ing.  Why  was  it  that  men  could  not  wait  ?  Women  did. 

And  they  could  not  marry  then.  Jared  himself  admitted 
it  after  a  while.  But  it  was  a  good  while  before  Miss  Vesta 
stopped  remembering  on  stormy  nights  how  he  looked  the 
day  she  told  him — blazing,  white,  taking  her  face  between 
his  shaking  hands  —  her  face,  young  then,  and  not  uncomely : 
there  was  never  a  Rollinstall  who  was  not  comely.  They 
used  that  sweet,  decorous  word  when  they  spoke  of  it  even 
in  their  own  hearts  ;  it  seemed  more  reserved,  Miss  Vesta 
thought,  more  modest,  than  "  pretty  "  or  "  good-looking." 

Miss  Vesta's  thought  had  diverged  just  here,  like  my  sen 
tence.  She  did  not  like  to  keep  it  where  it  was  ;  it  took 
her  breath. 

"  I  never  will  endure  it !  "  Jared  Hemlock  said.  "  I  can 
not  live  without  you.  Neither  heaven  nor  hell  shall  come 
between  us.  I  '11  have  you  somehow,  Vesta." 

Miss  Vesta's  pale  face  scorched  as  she  sat  alone  there  by 
her  own  fire,  with  no  one  else  in  all  the  empty  house.  She 
looked  at  her  withering  hands,  the  prim,  pure  colors  of  her 
dress.  It  seemed  to  her, a  kind  of  rudeness  that  any  man 
should  ever  have  been  in  the  world  talking  so  to  her,  it  was 


238  TWO   HUNDRED   AND   TWO. 

so  far  off  now.  And  then  he  had  not  had  her  somehow, 
He  had  lived  without  her.  He  had  endured  it.  Nor  was 
it  heaven  or  hell  that  had  come  between  them. 

It  was  nothing  so  romantic  or  profane  as  that,  thought 
poor  ^  Miss  Vesta.  It  was  only  that  her  mother  had  the 
paralytic  stroke,  and  that  her  father,  as  everybody  knew, 
grew  blind.  Some  one  must  take  care  of  them.  There  was 
nobody  but  Miss  Vesta. 

And  then  there  was  not  much  to  live  on.  There  were 
rich  Rollinstalls  —  rich  enough  to  have  bought  up  the 
Michigan  Central  Railroad  —  but  that  was  the  Rhode  Island 
branch.  And  Jared  was  the  minister's  son.  Ministers,  of 
course,  were  poor.  Jared  said  he  never  would  be  a  minister. 
He  studied  law.  And  they  had  waited  and  waited.  Jared 
used  to  come  to  tea  every  Thursday  night. 

And  then  there  came  a  time  when  Jared  would  wait  no 
longer.  He  went  to  Germany.  Jared  went  to  Germany, 
to  study  law  or  something.  He  went  partly  for  his  health, 
poor  fellow.  He  had  a  touch  of  rheumatism,  or  —  what  was 
it  ?  At  first  they  wrote  to  one  another.  But  her  mother 
lived  on,  and  on,  and  on,  poor  mother  !  quite  changed,  and 
with  broken  mind  and  petulant  ways.  And  when  her  father 
grew  so  helpless,  Miss  Vesta  sat  down  one  day,  in  a  fever 
of  worry  and  weariness,  and  wrote  to  Jared  that  since  her 
duty  was  at  home,  and  was  likely  to  be  there  till  she  was 
old  and  ill  herself,  since  God  had  willed  it  so,  and  since 
they  could  not  help  it,  she  or  he,  and  since  he  was  so  far 
away,  and  in  strange  scenes  and  among  strange  people, 
perhaps  they  had  better  call  themselves  dear  friends  only 
to  each  other,  knowing  so  little  as  they  did  what  the  future 
had  in  store  for  him  especially.  And  Jared  wrote  that  per 
haps  they  had,  but  that  no  one  else  could  be  so  dear  as  she 
—  not  even  in  Germany ;  which  was  a  great  comfort  to  Miss 
Vesta  for  a  little  while.  She  had  never  been  in  Germany. 
She  felt  as  if  that  mysterious  country  abounded  in  pleasant 


TWO    HUNDEED   AND   TWO.  239 

ladies  with  no  invalid  parents  to  take  care  of.  And  so  by 
and  by  Jared  did  not  write  so  often.  And  so  one  day  she 
saw  it  in  the  Puritan  Recorder  that  he  was  married,  and 
that  his  wife 's  first  name  was  Berta,  and  that  she  lived  in 
Leipsic.  And  Jared  sent  cards  to  the  family.  And  then 
he  wrote  no  more.  And  he  had  never  come  home.  Jane 
Rollinstall  had  a  theory  that  he  was  dead.  Once  she  had 
expressed  it  to  Miss  Vesta.  But  Miss  Vesta  could  not  talk 
about  it.  She  did  not  answer  Jane.  Her  father  died  that 
year.  When  she  was  thirty-five  her  mother  followed  him. 
The  old  lady  complained  a  great  deal  to  the  neighbors  of 
her  daughter  the  last  year  of  her  life ;  said  that  Vesta  had 
not  got  married,  and  was  a  burden  to  the  family.  Miss 
Vesta  laid  her  away  in  the  Rollinstall  lot  of  the  Palestine 
Cemetery,  with  a  sickening  grief  which  none  of  the  occa 
sional  friends  who  came  from  Boston  to  lunch  with  her 
seemed  to  understand ;  even  Jane  Rollinstall  herself  said 
it  was  not  like  losing  one's  husband  or  lover,  but  invited 
Miss  Vesta  to  spend  a  month  with  her. 

Miss  Vesta  cried  when  nobody  saw  her,  and  then  cried 
Because  there  was  nobody  to  see  her ;  and  so,  for  economy, 
gave  up  crying  by  and  by,  except  on  stormy  nights,  as  I 
said.  She  had  lived  a  hard  life  of  devotion  to  a  hard  duty 
for  a  great  while.  Every  nerve  in  her  body  and  soul 
quivered  tense  now  like  a  breaking  thing.  She  could  not 
afford  to  become  hysterical.  If  she  did,  something  would 
snap. 

Youth  dies  hard,  and  hope  harder.  Miss  Vesta  could 
not  understand  at  first,  when  at  thirty -five  she  was  left 
alone  in  the  unpainted  house,  where  two  hundred  years  of 
human  joy  and  anguish  kept  her  mute  company,  that  doing 
one's  definite  duty  bravely  and  patiently  to  the  end  does 
not  bring  one  definite  happiness.  She  had  really  felt  some 
times  as  if  God  must  mean  to  surprise  her  now  that  the 
duty  was  done,  as  if  He  had  kept  some  good  thing  waiting 
till  she  could  take  it. 


240  TWO   HUNDRED   AND   TWO. 

At  first  she  thought  it  must  be  the  mission  Sunday-school 
he  meant,  for  to  the  Sunday-school  she  had  turned  devoutly 
and  devotedly  as  soon  as  her  lonely  hands  were  free.  All 
the  Rollinstall  ladies  taught  in  mission  schools ;  usually 
stopped  when  they  married,  and  gave  the  class  to  some 
well-connected  young  lady  who  was  actively  desirous  for 
religious  usefulness. 

It  was  with  as  much  surprise  as  pain  that  Miss  Vesta 
discovered  by  and  by  that  there  were  fierce  clamors  and 
wide  wastes  in  her  nature  which  even  her  twelve  big,  red, 
freckled  bovs  in  the  vestry  could  not  fill.  They  were  fine 
fellows ;  and  when  the  superintendent  said  that  each  class 
might  give  itself  a  name  for  use  at  the  concert,  they  sug 
gested  that  they  should  be  called  Lilies-of-the-Valley. 

But  ah  !  if  hope  dies  hard,  perhaps,  after  all,  youth  dies 
harder.  Miss  Vesta  was  still  "  comely,"  and  the  old  peo 
ple  were  gone.  Palestine  bachelors  and  widowers  began  to 
think  of  this.  On  week-days,  between  the  returning  ex 
citements  of  the  mission  school,  Miss  Vesta's  life  vibrated 
now  with  strange  confusions.  The  minister  himself  paid 
his  decorous  distinct  addresses  at  the  ancient  house.  ai\d 
Miss  Vesta  had  all  the  weakness  of  a  woman  of  the  olden 
time  (to  say  nothing  of  the  added  family  predilections  in 
this  direction)  for  ministers.  At  least  two  lawyers  came, 
saw,  and  were  conquered ;  and  Jane  Rollinstall  herself 
wrote,  advising  her  to  think  seriously  of  the  shoe-and- 
leather  merchant  who  did  business  in  Boston.  But  Miss 
Vesta  watched  them  all  come  and  go  with  pure  and  puzzled 
eyes.  She  had  loved  one  man.  She  had  promised  to  be 
his  wife.  His  hand  had  held  her  ;  his  kiss  had  touched 
her.  What  did  they  mean,  these  other  men  ?  What  did 
they  expect  ?  Could  a  woman  do  that  thing  again  ? 

"  How  dare  you  ?  "  she  cried,  to  the  shoe-and-leather 
lover,  when  he  urged  his  suit  a  little  on  a  moonlight  even 
ing,  coming  from  the  preparatory  lecture  ;  and  then  had  fled 
from  him,  aghast,  sobbing,  like  an  insulted  girl. 


TWO   HUNDRED   AND   TWO.  241 

But  if  youth  and  hope  die  hard,  the  capacity  for  love  dies 
harder.  Here  in  Telephone,  in  this  unfamiliar  life,  with 
silence  for  her  lover,  with  solitude  for  her  husband,  with 
lonely  hours  for  her  children,  Miss  Vesta  had  been,  per 
haps,  most  sorely  bestead.  There  was  a  minister,  too,  in 
Telephone.  He  presided  over  the  Union  Church,  that  tow 
ered  liberally  opposite  the  Telephone  Bowling- Alley.  Miss 
Yesta  disapproved  of  Union  churches  on  general  principles  ; 
thought  them  not  apt  to  be  sound ;  her  family  had  always 
thought  so.  But  since  her  old  Palestine  pastor,  Dr.  Con 
serve,  had  accepted  a  call  to  Boston,  there  was  little  to 
do  but  to  submit  gracefully  to  the  march  of  circumstances. 
Miss  Vesta  waited  on  the  Union  gentleman's  preaching,  and 
the  Union  gentleman  waited  on  her. 

Miss  Vesta  was  lonely  ;  that  cannot  be  denied.  And 
every  week  she  thought  she  grew  lonelier  —  a  little.  She 
tried  hard  to  like  the  Union  minister.  For  a  whole  week 
she  kept  him  waiting  for  his  answer.  She  went  alone  into 
her  room,  and  sat  down,  in  her  gray  dress  and  pink  ribbon 
that  Susy  Hemlock  painted,  and  folded  her  hands,  and  said, 
"  Let  me  see  if  I  cannot  love  this  good  man."  But  when 
the  week  was  over,  she  went  to  him  and  gravely  said :  — 

"  When  I  was  young  I  promised  to  be  some  one 's  wife. 
I  cannot  do  that  twice.  A  woman  cannot  "  — 

"  But  other  women  are  not  so  fastidious  !  "  interrupted 
the  minister,  with  a  flash  of  temper.  He  had  never  had  a 
woman  refuse  him  before. 

"  Then  I  am  not  like  other  women,"  said  Miss  Vesta, 
simply. 

So  now  she  sat  alone  in  the  November  storm,  in  the  soli 
tary  house,  thinking  about  these  things.  Her  thoughts  were 
sad  enough,  as  those  of  the  solitary  may  be  —  must  be,  we 
sometimes  say ;  but  they  were  not  disquiet  or  perplexed. 
Miss  Vesta  was  not  a  great,  or  wise,  or  exceptional  woman  ; 
she  had  lived  a  plain  and  commonplace  life ;  no  heroic 
16 


242  TWO   HUNDRED   AND    TWO. 

chance  had  opened  before  her ;  usefulness  and  honor  had 
spoken  to  her  in  lowly  language  ;  her  story  had  been  all 
prose. 

But  one  poem  Miss  Vesta  knew  by  heart  —  the  long, 
sweet,  sane  poem  of  a  pure  and  permanent  love.  She  was 
a  delicate  and  tender  woman ;  she  had  felt  as  if  her  delicacy 
and  tenderness  both  demanded  of  her  that  she  should  be 
true  to  the  best  and  highest  side  of  her  nature,  so  far,  at 
least,  as  she  understood  it :  Miss  Vesta  was  an  old-fashioned 
woman,  and  did  not  think  much  about  "  nature."  All  she 
knew  was  that  God  had  given  her  one  right  love  for  one 
right  man,  and  that  solitude  was  a  small  cross  to  count 
against  the  wearing  of  such  a  crown.  It  was  the  only  ideal 
she  had  ;  of  reforms,  causes,  missions,  and  careers  she  knew 
little.  She  did  not  care  much  even  about  "  Boston  culture," 
and  sat  puzzled  when  the  ladies  talked  about  it  at  lunch. 
It  was  different  somehow  from  what  she  was  taught  at  the 
Palestine  Female  Seminary.  Her  unreasoning  and  unswerv 
ing  love,  I  say,  was  the  only  ideal  she  had.  She  cherished 
it  in  purity  and  peace  ;  she  served  it  in  honor  and  fidelity. 
Nobody  called  her  a  great  woman.  But  that  does  not 
matter.  God  understood. 

Miss  Vesta  went  to  bed  early  that  stormy  night ;  put 
away  Susy's  painted  ribbon  in  a  little  olive-wood  box  where 
she  kept  a  few  other  precious,  useless  things  (her  thin  old 
betrothal  ring  among  them)  ;  folded  her  gray  cashmere  skirt 
carefully ;  screwed  out  the  lonely  astral ;  knelt  and  said  her 
prayers  ;  asked  the  Lord,  as  usual,  to  bless  Jared  Hemlock, 
without  the  least  doubt  in  the  wTorld  as  to  whether  that 
awful  and  Infinite  Will  could  be  shaken  by  a  thing  so 
slight  as  the  request  of  a  solitary  old  maid  shivering  in  her 
night-dress  on  her  knees,  asking  the  same  thing  in  the  same 
way  every  night  for  fifteen  years.  Theology  was  not  Miss 
Vesta's  specialty.  It  was  one's  duty  to  say  one's  prayers. 
And  see,  when  they  are  said,  and  the  light  of  the  econom- 


TWO   HUNDRED    AND   TWO.  243 

ical  street  gas,  which  Telephone  will  put  out  at  half  past 
eleven,  falls  in  through  the  parted  ashes-of-roses  curtain 
upon  the  smooth  white  bed-spread,  and  the  increasing  rain 
drives  against  the  small-paned  window  and  the  sunken 
piazza  roof,  how  peacefully  one  falls  asleep  ! 

It  was  twenty  minutes  past  five  o'clock  —  an  angry 
storrn.  Miss  Vesta  waked  ten  minutes  before  her  usual 
time,  wondering  why,  above  the  raging  of  the  wind  and  wet, 
the  milk-man  stood  making  such  a  racket  at  the  door  below. 
She  got  herself  hurriedly  into  her  wrapper  ;  then,  filled  with 
a  dim  consciousness  of  the  unusual,  anticipating  possible 
parleys  with  unknown  tradesmen  on  unguessed  themes,  mod 
estly  slipped  instead  into  the  gray  cashmere,  and,  throwing 
an  old  lace  handkerchief  round  her  collarless  neck,  went 
shivering  down  and  confidingly  drew  the  bolt  without  ques 
tion  or  demur.  She  peered  out  into  the  breaking  darkness 
through  the  curtain  of  the  rain. 

"  Jerry,  is  that  you  ?  " 

"  Madam  ?  —  excuse  me." 

It  was  not  Jerry.  Miss  Vesta  pushed  the  door  a  trifle 
closer,  but  stood  serene,  looking  through  the  crack.  A  man 
was  out  there,  dripping  ;  dazed,  it  seemed. 

"  I  thought  it  was  the  milk-man,"  she  said,  placidly. 

"Would  you  be  good  enough  to  call  your  husband?" 
gasped  the  visitor.  "I  —  I  did  not  mean  to  disturb  a  lady 
at  this  untimely  hour ;  but  the  fact  is,  I  'm  suffering." 

"  Step  in,  then,  out  of  the  rain,"  said  Miss  Vesta,  decid 
edly.  Miss  Vesta  was  not  "  timid."  And  this  was  no  tramp. 
Besides,  why  tell  strange  men  that  she  had  no  husband  ? 
It  was  far  easier  to  let  this  person  come  into  the  front 
entry. 

He  stepped  in.  Miss  Vesta  had  left  one  of  her  brass 
kitchen  lamps  burning  on  the  stairway -landing.  The  feeble 
glimmer  struggled  half-way  down,  fainted,  and  fell  into  the 
mysterious  half-light  in  which  her  visitor  stood  facing  her. 
He  had  taken  off  his  hat. 


244  TWO   HUNDRED   AND   TWO. 

"  I  bought  that  confounded  house  opposite  yesterday,"  be 
gan  the  man  at  once  —  "  your  pardon,  madam  :  I  mean  that 
very  unpleasant  house.  I  took  the  whim  to  stay  in  it ;  sent 
in  town  for  my  things.  Don't  think  me  crazy.  I  've  nobody 
but  myself  to  think  of.  As  well  there  as  in  hotels.  That 
Jobbs  built  up  a  furnace  fire.  There  was  a  sofa  and  an 
empty  pillow-case  left  by  the  last  tenants  —  decoys,  I  sup 
pose.  Madam,  that  house  leaked  like  an  umbrella  turned 
wrong  side  out ;  spattered  into  my  face ;  trickled  up  my 
sleeve ;  tickled  my  feet ;  crawled  down  my  neck ;  ran  in 
streams  down  the  register ;  put  out  the  furnace  fire  —  al 
most  did  as  much  for  me.  I  am  subject  to  rheumatism  at 
the  heart.  I  stood  it  till  I  thought  somebody  would  be  stir 
ring.  I  —  I  '11  not  come  in  to  annoy  a  lady  unless  there  are 
gentlemen  here  ;  but  —  excuse  me,  madam  ;  I  am  in  great 
pain." 

He  staggered  slightly,  leaning  against  the  half-shut  door 
through  which  the  pursuing  storm  beat  in. 

"  Come  !  "  said  Miss  Vesta.  She  shut  the  front  door,  and 
herself  led  the  way  into  the  dim  and  silent  sitting-room, 
where  the  embers  of  last  night's  fire  peered  winking  sleepily 
through  the  ashes. 

The  intruder  followed  her  without  speaking,  groaning 
now  and  then. 

Miss  Yesta  started  the  fire  promptly,  and  went  out  to  get 
the  little  lamp  from  the  landing.  She  did  not  look  at  her 
visitor  as  she  went.  He  might  murder  her  if  he  chose.  She 
would  not  turn  a  man  with  rheumatism  at  the  heart  out  into 
the  storm.  The  conventional  propriety  of  her  hospitality 
it  never  occurred  to  Miss  Vesta's  mind  to  question,  or  to 
question  if  anybody  else  would  question  it.  The  Rollin- 
stalls  were  ladies.  They  never  did  what  was  not  proper. 
Everybody  knew  that.  If  Miss  Vesta  chose  to  turn  her 
house  into  a  hospital  for  tramps  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing,  her  so  doing  would  in  itself  be  the  only  explanation 
that  the  eccentricity  would  require. 


TWO   HUNDRED  AND   TWO.  245 

While  Miss  Vesta  was  gone  for  the  brass  lamp,  the  fire 
began  to  burn. 

She  came  in,  looking  very  pale  and  sweet  and  assured  in 
her  colorless  dress,  carrying  the  lamp  with  one  thin  hand 
curved  to  shelter  the  tiny  flame.  It  was  a  delicate  and 
faithful  motion  —  like  Miss  Vesta. 

Crouched  over  the  waxing  fire,  haggard,  with  one  hand 
on  his  heart,  she  found  her  man.  She  went  directly  up, 
and  began  with  the  business-like  sympathy  of  voice  that 
she  reserved  for  watching  and  funerals  and  all  the  old-time 
neighborly  services  to  the  suffering. 

"  Now  what  is  the  first  thing  to  be  done  for  you  ?  Let 
me  see  your  pulse.  No,  your  face  first." 

In  the  light  of  the  lamp  and  fire  he  turned  his  face,  and 
they  looked  at  one  another. 

"  You  are  the  man  —  you  are  the  gentleman  who  handed 
me  the  celery,"  said  Miss  Vesta,  after  a  pause.  Then  she 
began  to  tremble.  Then  she  flung  away  his  hand,  which 
she  had  lifted  with  cold  far  fingers  to  feel  the  pulse.  She 
retreated  from  him  suspiciously. 

"  I  don't  know  who  you  are  !  "  she  shrilly  cried. 

"  Forgive  me,  Vesta  !  "  he  said,  stretching  out  his  shak 
ing  arm.  "  Before  God  I  did  not  know  !  Everything  is  so 
changed  "  — 

"  But  where  is  Mrs.  Hemlock  ?  "  asked  Miss  Vesta.  We 
must  forgive  her.  Rheumatism  at  the  heart  is  a  passing 
pain,  soon  over.  That  other  pain  of  Miss  Vesta's  had 
lasted  fifteen  years.  And  Jared  was  warm  now  and  com 
fortable  ;  had  tasted  of  the  coffee  she  had  cooked;  Miss 
Vesta  ate  and  drank  nothing.  She  took  care  of  him,  with 
compressed  and  colorless  lips,  dutifully,  as  of  an  old  neigh 
bor  ;  the  tramp  would  have  been  treated  as  conscientiously, 
more  tenderly.  She  had  asked  no  questions.  His  eye  had 
followed  her.  They  had  both  been  silent  and  constrained. 


246  TWO   HUNDRED   AND    TWO. 

Now  that  he  was  out  of  suffering,  Miss  Vesta  began  to  won 
der  what  Jane  Rollinstall  would  say.  So  she  asked  :  — 

"  Where  is  Mrs.  Hemlock  ?  Where  is  your  wife  ?  "  — 
primly,  with  the  sharpest  twang  Jared  had  ever  heard  in 
her  voice.  Miss  Vesta  had  a  soft  voice. 

"  I  have  no  wife,"  he  said,  not  more  gently. 

"  When  did  she  die  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Jared,  meekly,  with  a  dash  of  his 
old  sauciness. 

"  Don't  know  ?  "  exclaimed  Miss  Vesta,  with  great  pro 
priety  of  manner. 

"  I  never  had  any,"  pursued  Jared.  He  began  to  whistle ; 
then  said,  "  Excuse  me,  Vesta." 

"  You  are  perfectly  excusable,"  said  Miss  Vesta,  still  with 
much  Rollinstall  dignity.  "  But  we  had  the  cards.  I  do 
not  understand  you,  Jared  Hemlock.  I  do  not  understand 
anything  —  anything  in  this  world."  She  broke  down  with 
an  unexpected  little  womanish  wail. 

"  Berta  jilted  me,"  said  Jared,  shortly.  "  Perhaps  you 
can  understand  that.  She  found  a  German  baron  she  liked 
better.  She  jilted  me  at  the  very  last  moment.  I  de 
served  it." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Miss  Vesta.     She  did  not  say  he  did  not. 

"  And  I  'm  glad  of  it,"  added  Jared. 

"  Oh !  "  said  Miss  Vesta  again.  She  did  not  say  she  was 
sorry. 

"  But,  of  course,"  observed  Jared,  stirring  his  coffee,  with 
a  touch  of  embarrassment,  "  I  thought  you  were  married 
long  ago.  I  was  ashamed  to  come  back  to  you,  Vesta.  To 
think  how  I  did  come  in  the  end  —  a  beggar  —  a  tramp  — 
drowned  —  a  rat  —  a  dying  rat !  "  continued  Jared,  with 
twinkling  eyes.  "  And  to  think  of  your  saying,  '  Is  that 
you,  Jerry  ?  ' '  He  laughed.  Despite  herself  —  the  sen 
sitive,  suspicious,  woman's  self  that  was  stung  and  bewil 
dered  in  every  nerve  —  Miss  Vesta  laughed  too. 


TWO   HUNDRED   AND   TWO.  247 

"  It  was  funny,"  said  Miss  Vesta. 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Jared ;  "  suppose  you  eat  your 
breakfast." 

"  There  is  the  celery."  said  Miss  Vesta. 

She  brought  the  celery,  and  Jared  ate  some  of  it.  She 
looked  on.  Jared  said  it  was  frozen,  and  she  said  she  did 
not  wonder ;  and  then  neither  of  them  said  anything. 

The  clear  day  drew  on  ;  the  wind  was  shifting ;  through 
the  curtain  of  the  rain  a  soft  gray  light  began  to  stir. 

Jared  sat  by  the  fire,  and  Miss  Vesta  put  away  the  break 
fast  things.  The  wind  went  down.  Scant  drops  trickled 
and  twinkled  from  the  piazza  roof.  People  went  by  to 
the  business  train  ;  they  left  their  umbrellas,  and  nodded 
at  each  other  merrily.  The-  gray  light  sweetened ;  a  warm 
color  lay  upon  the  gravel  heaps  in  the  corner  lot.  By  and 
by  there  came  the  sunburst. 

Miss  Vesta  was  standing  by  the  window,  and  the  color 
broke  full  against  her  face  —  the  shrinking,  womanly  face, 
pale  and  pinched  and  perplexed.  Jared  Hemlock  wondered 
what  it  was  like  to  be  a  woman ;  to  be  treated  as  he  had 
treated  her ;  to  stand  there  waiting,  not  able  to  say  what 
she  thought  or  felt  or  wanted ;  wounded,  wrung,  and  dumb, 
yet  so  tender  !  And  true  —  so  true  ! 

He  went  abruptly  over  to  her,  and  said  :  "  Vesta,  I  'm 
not  fit  to  touch  the  hem  of  your  dress."  But  he  put  out  one 
finger  and  timidly  stroked  the  old  gray  cashmere  sleeve. 
"  I  never  felt  about  any  body  as  I  did  —  as  I  do  —  about 
you,"  said  Jared  Hemlock.  He  did  not  whistle  now,  nor 
laugh.  Miss  Vesta  looked  at  him  piercingly.  She  did  not 
understand  that.  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  was  not  a 
man.  Men  were  so  different.  The  Rollinstalls  had  always 
held  that  men  were  very  different.  "  It  won't  do  for  me 
to  stay  on  this  way,"  said  Jared,  awkwardly.  "  I  ought  to 
take  the  next  train,  you  know,  and — clear  out,  and  all  that." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Vesta. 


248  TWO    HUNDRED   AND   TWO. 

"  It  sounds  mean,"  said  Jared,  "  but  I  don't  mean  to  be 
mean.  If  I  supposed  you  'd  ever  take  me  now,  Vesta,  after 
all  —  perhaps  by  and  by,  when  you  've  got  used  to  me  — 
there  is  n't  much  to  take,  Vesta  dear  —  an  old  fellow  with 
rheumatism.  It 's  endocarditis,"  added  Jared,  with  a  scien 
tific  air,  "  if  you  'd  like  to  know." 

"  I  'm  glad  you  did  n't  marry  her,"  said  Miss  Vesta,  trem 
bling.  "  But "  —  She  stopped  ;  she  could  not  say  what  she 
was  thinking.  She  looked  at  him  ;  her  delicate  face  shone. 
So  the  priestess  might  have  looked,  tending  the  white  fire  in 
that  older,  ruder  age  which  cherished  its  own  share  of  fine 
ideals.  She  lifted  her  head  with  a  certain  haughtiness.  "  / 
never  kissed  any  one  —  any  man  —  but  you." 

She  had  not  meant  to  say  it,  but  it  was  said.  He  had 
not  meant  to  do  it,  but  it  was  done. 

"All  the  more  reason,  Vesta,  why  you  should  do  it 
again." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Miss  Vesta,  presently,  "  what  Jane 
Rollinstall  will  say  ?  " 

"Why,  really,"  said  Jared,  in  a  comfortable,  common 
place  tone,  "  what  with  my  coming  in  the  rain  and  all,  and 
the  fuss  it  would  be  to  explain  —  I  hate  a  fuss,  Vesta. 
Suppose  we  omit  that  stanza  —  suppose  we  go  somewhere 
and  get  married  ?  I  don't  see  but  one  time 's  as  well  as 
another  :  and  the  sun  is  out." 

"  The  Rollinstalls  never  have  done  such  a  thing,"  said 
Miss  Vesta,  hastily. 

"  I  doubt  if  they  ever  had  the  opportunity,"  observed  the 
lover,  irreverently.  He  began  to  whistle  again  ;  but  Miss 
Vesta,  looking  up,  saw  that  his  eyes  were  full ;  the  hand 
with  which  he  held  her  shook.  "  The  amount  of  it  is,"  he 
said,  less  distinctly,  "  I  've  beaten  about  the  world  so  long 
alone,  and  you  —  you  —  you  —  my  poor  girl !  Come,  we 
are  n't  young  any  more,  Vesta  !  We  've  tried  being  lone- 


TWO    HUNDRED    AND    TWO.  249 

some  long  enough.  I  don't  feel  as  if  we  had  a  minute  to 
lose.  If  I  'm  fit  to  be  taken  at  all,  I  'm  fit  to  be  taken  at 
once.  Besides,"  added  Jared,  clearing  his  voice,  "you'll 
have  to  take  me  in.  for  charity.  I  can't  go  back  to  that  con 
founded  house  (I  paid  five  thousand  dollars  for  it)  ;  I  have  n't 
any  place  to  go.  If  you  're  going  to  keep  me,  I  think  it 's 
more  proper  we  should  be  married." 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  suggested  Miss  Vesta,  after  some 
thought.  .  "  We  might  go  to  Jane  Rollinstall's  ;  she  would 
send  for  Dr.  Conserve.  I  should  have  preferred  to  wait 
till  I  had  thought  more  about  it.  But  if  you  should  have 
another  of  those  attacks,  I  —  should  prefer  to  take  care  of 
you.  It 's  nobody' s  business  but  ours,"  pursued  Miss  Vesta, 
with  a  touch  of  the  family  dignity. 

The  sun  came  out,  and  came  out,  It  seemed  as  if  there 
never  was  so  much  sun  to  come  out  before.  The  fickle  wind 
turned  south,  and  there  stayed  faithfully. 

They  went  into  Boston  on  the  noon  train.  Half  Tele 
phone  went  too.  Telephone  always  went  to  Boston  after  a 
storm. 

Miss  Vesta  would  not  take  his  arm ;  she  said,  "  Wait  till 
we  come  home  ;  "  but  she  walked  beside  him  with  lifted 
head.  She  drew  the  old-fashioned  lace  veil,  and  under  her 
cloak  she  wore  Susy's  painted  pink  ribbon  and  the  cash 
mere  dress.  She  thought  of  putting  on  her  silk  ;  but  it  was 
black.  She  had  brought  down  the  thin  engagement  ring, 
and  Jared  had  put  it  on  again.  She  said  she  should  have 
plenty  of  time  to  get  some  gloves  in  town. 

The  sun  came  out,  and  came  out,  and  came  out.  The 
turned-up  turf  in  the  square  lots  took  on  warm  shades  of 
brown  and  scanty  green.  People  opened  the  blinds  of  the 
shut  parlors  (on  account  of  the  moths)  to  let  in  the  air. 
The  rows  of  cheap  houses  looked  fresh  and  clean ;  the  gangs 
of  laborers  whistled  at  their  work ;  the  smell  of  the  con 
crete  sidewalk  came  up  pleasantly,  as  if  to  remind  one  of 


250  TWO    HUNDRED    AND   TWO. 

summer,  when  the  air  would  be  full  of  it ;  the  signs  put  out 
read  cheerfully.  How  many  happy  homes  there  were  "  For 
Sale,"  or  "  To  Let,"  in  Telephone  !  All  the  business  men 
Miss  Vesta  and  Jared  met,  had  paid  for  their  houses  ;  their 
faces  shone ;  they  did  not  seem  lank  at  all.  Miss  Vesta 
thought  how  many  intelligent-looking  people  lived  in  Tele 
phone.  She  told  Jared  she  thought  the  place  was  rapidly 
becoming  cultivated. 

The  ladies  of  the  neighborhood  passed  them ;  only  one 
had  on  velveteen  ;  they  were  going  in  shopping ;  they  wore 
pretty,  modest  clothes.  The  Pettiwinkle  baby  trundled  by 
in  its  carriage,  holding  out  its  hands  to  Vesta.  The  Pur 
chases  nodded  at  her,  smiling  through  the  window.  One  of 
the  Adamses  stopped  and  told  her  that  the  old  lady  Church 
had  sent  in  five  dollars  from  Boston  for  the  mission  school. 
In  the  distance  the  steam-shovel  sighed  softly. 

They  looked  back  as  they  turned  the  concrete  corner  to 
the  station.  On  an  old  gray  house  with  little  panes  of  glass 
and  some  elm-trees,  two  hundred  years  breathed  a  pure  and 
patriarchal  benediction. 

"  Heaven  bless  it !  "  said  Miss  Vesta. 

On  a  saucy,  shabby  cottage  with  a  suspiciously  wet  roof, 
the  morning  sun  winked  warily. 

"  It  was  only  two  years  old,  after  all,"  said  Jared,  for 
givingly.  "  Too  young  to  know  better.  I  '11  turn  it  into  a 
mission  school." 

The  station-mistress  came  out  see  them  when  they  got  to 
the  station.  Jared  went  to  telegraph  to  Jane  Rollins  tall 
and  Dr.  Conserve.  The  station-mistress  told  Miss  Vesta 
she  did  n't  know  it  was  an  acquaintance  of  hers,  and  asked 
her  if  she  was  goin'  in  to  Cousin  Jane's.  The  station-mis 
tress  had  on  a  clean  white  apron  over  the  alpaca  dress.  The 
baby  sat  on  the  floor  and  held  the  door  open  —  the  stock 
ings  were  blue  that  day.  The  sun  lay  distinctly  on  the 
modern  carpet ;  it  was  so  warm  that  there  was  no  fire  in 


TWO   HUNDRED    AND   TWO.  251 

the  air-tight  stove,  and  the  German  ivy  jar  stood  upon  it ; 
the  paper  dado  glitered  like  old  mosaic  varnished ;  the 
chromos  were  framed  in  the  colored  straw  and  hung  over 
the  piano.  The  girl  iii  the  pull-back  was  ornamenting  the 
calico  pantaloons  with  stripes  of  deep  brick-colored  worsted 
braid ;  as  she  sewed  she  sang.  There  was  a  red  geranium 
in  one  of  the  decorated  blacking  bottles.  The  station-mis 
tress  said  it  was  one  of  the  days  everybody  went  to  Boston. 
She  said  folks  looked  so  happy  after  it  had  rained.  Then 
she  asked  Jared  if  he  found  a  house  to  suit  him,  and  he  said 
he  had.  Then  she  asked  him  if  he  minded  the  steam-shovel, 
and  he  said  no,  he  didn't  mind  anything ;  and  the  station- 
mistress  said  that  was  kind  of  queer.  Then  she  asked  Miss 
Vesta  if  her  salary  was  frozen,  and  then  she  asked  — 

But  just  then  the  whistle  sounded  down  the  narrow, 
sunny  length  of  the  Happiness  and  Energy  Railroad.  The 
two-o'clock  train  was  prompt  to  an  instant.  Jared  noticed 
this  with  approval.  Everybody  pushed  and  hurried  gently, 
laughing,  to  get  in.  Miss  Vesta  felt  it  very  strange  not  to 
have  to  push  and  hurry  for  herself.  She  sat  by  Jared 
silently  ;  she  looked  very  sweet  and  young  behind  her  veil. 
Now  and  then  she  wondered  if  she  had  let  Jared  win  her 
too  easily  this  second  time.  But  then  she  remembered  those 
attacks.  If  he  had  not  had  rheumatism  at  the  heart,  of 
course  it  would  have  been  very  different.  And  then,  as  he 
said,  they  had  been  lonesome  so  long. 

So  when  they  got  to  Jane  Rollinstall's  (Jane  had  a  flat  in 
the  Boswick  Hotel)  they  found  her  at  home,  sitting  in  her 
black  dress.  She  was  writing  invitations  to  a  course  of 
parlor  lectures,  by  an  unpopular  but  conscientious  critic,  on 
the  Minor  Nova  Zemblan  Poets.  She  put  down  her  pen, 
and  said,  with  much  Rollinstall  independence  and  deci 
sion  :  — 

"  You  did  perfectly  right,  my  dear,  to  come  directly  to 
me.  Dr.  Conserve  has  sent  word  —  he  boards  here  —  that 


252  TWO   HUNDRED  AND   TWO. 

he  cannot  come  here  till  quarter  of  five.  So  take  it  easily. 
There  are  a  few  old  Palestine  friends  —  board  here  ;  I 
thought  you  would  like  to  have  them  present.  I  have  in 
vited  Herman  and  Dorothea  Rollinstall  —  boarding  here 

they  belong  to  the  Rhode  Island  branch." 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 

CHRISTMAS   STORY. 


THIRTEEN  hundred  miles  from  home. 

The  two  Boston  boys  stepped  slowly  off  the  "  City  Point " 
upon  the  little  pier's  head  at  Tocoi.  The  Florida  traveler 
is  not  accustomed  to  step  slowly  at  Tocoi.  He  springs,  he 
vaults,  he  flies,  he  pounces,  he  reddens,  he  perspires,  he 
agonizes  ;  for,  like  the  old  sums  in  the  arithmetic  which 
were  the  Nemesis  of  childhood,  whose  finality  serenely  and 
unblushingly  disposed  of  six  eighths  of  a  man,  or  a  half  a 
monkey,  or  three  fifths  of  a  goose,  the  railroad  accommoda 
tions  at  Tocoi  were  adapted  chiefly  to  fractional  parts  of 
humanity. 

But  the  young  men  whose  simple  story  I  am  to  tell 
made  no  effort  to  join  the  crowd  that  poured  into  the  pert, 
conscious  little  train,  whose  very  smoke-stack  held  itself 
with  the  coquettish  air  of  a  creature  much  sought  and  not 
easily  won,  and  aware  of  the  impossibility  of  rivals. 

The  two  Boston  boys  in  the  vibrating  crowd  stood  still ; 
quite  still.  They  looked  about  them  wearily.  There  was 
not  much  to  look  at,  for  the  matter  of  that ;  the  single  pier, 
the  lonely  river,  the  departing  steamer,  the  hurrying  train, 
a  solitary  house ;  the  crowd  pouring,  pulsating,  pursuant, 
like  a  creature  in  whom  one  brain  beat  and  one  heart 
throbbed ;  the  forest,  vast,  untrodden,  dumb  ;  and  above, 
the  unmated  southern  sky.  Everything  looked  so  lonely  in 
Florida ! 


254  CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 

So  thought  many  another  northern  tourist  at  Tocoi  that 
late  December  afternoon :  people  peered  from  the  car- 
windows  into  the  gray  wilderness  through  which  the  light 
was  already  slanting  low,  with  the  hyper-critical  eyes  of 
travelers  at  the  end  of  a  week's  journey ;  they  hugged 
themselves  in  their  wraps,  for  the  wind  swept  keen  from 
the  St.  John's  River  despite  the  Florida  sun  —  and  drizzled 
complaints,  or  dammed  them  (with  two  m's),  according  to 
their  several  capacities  and  abilities. 

It  was  too  cold.  It  was  too  hot.  The  twilight  was  op 
pressive.  The  light  was  glaring.  The  conductor,  they 
had  heard,  was  three  hours  getting  through.  On  the  con 
trary,  accidents  were  very  common  from  the  reckless  man 
ner  in  which  the  train  was  driven.  It  was  too  early  in  the 
season.  It  was  too  late  in  the  season.  It  was  too  dusty. 
It  was  too  damp.  Too  many  pine-trees.  Too  many 
swamps.  Too  many  oranges.  Not  oranges  enough.  Or 
anges  hung  too  high,  too  low.  A  consumptive  lady,  rousing 
from  a  despairing  apathy  in  a  corner,  suggested  that  the 
oranges  were  too  yellow.  She  called  her  daughter  in  from 
the  platform  of  the  baggage-car,  where  she  stood  silently 
and  intently  looking  river-wards. 

"  Calla !  The  only  thing  people  in  this  car  can  agree 
upon  is  that  Florida  looks  lonely.  Now,  /  think  the  or 
anges  are  too  yellow.  What  do  you  think  ?  I  must  have 
somebody  agree  with  me  immediately.  Ask  Dr.  Frank- 
row.  Dr.  Frankrow !  I  insist  upon  it,  that  the  orange,  — 
regarded  as  a  fruit,  purely  as  a  fruit,"  persisted  the  lady 
argumentatively,  as  if  the  orange,  but  for  the  conciseness 
of  her  language,  might  be  considered  a  vegetable,  or  possi 
bly  a  mineral,  or  even  an  animal,  —  "  purely  as  a  fruit,  is 
several  shades  too  yellow." 

"  Indeed,  mamma,"  said  the  young  lady  gently,  "  I  had 
not  thought  about  the  oranges.  I  was  thinking  of  the 
boys." 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD.  255 

"  She  means  those  two  poor  young  fellows  on  the  wharf, 
Mrs.  Hepburn.  It  seems  we  are  to  leave  them  behind," 
the  gentleman  explained,  also  very  gently,  but  standing,  as 
the  young  lady  stood,  still  looking  intently  river-wards. 

The  young  lady  wore  a  dark,  lustreless  blue  dress  ;  she 
carried  a  cloth  of  gold  rose.  Most  northern  women  in 
Florida  decorated  themselves,  like  children  at  a  May  picnic, 
with  flowers  ;  whether  in  traveling  or  under  whatever  in 
appropriate  circumstances.  Dr.  Frankrow  found  it  agree 
able  that  Miss  Hepburn  bore  the  gorgeous  bit  of  color  in 
her  hand  and  not  upon  her  dress. 

There  is  so  much  of  the  glacier  in  us,  after  all ;  so  chill 
ing  is  the  self-concentration  of  our  natures,  that  perhaps  it 
is  not  strange  that  of  some  sixty  tourists  packed  into  the 
train  at  Tocoi  that  night,  and  magnetically  agreed  upon  the 
solitude  of  Florida,  it  occurred  only  to  the  two  who  stood 
persistently  upon  the  platform,  that  those  boys  were  the 
most  solitary  sight  they  had  seen  yet.  They  did  not,  how 
ever,  discuss  it.  The  physician,  indeed,  through  a  physi 
cian's  deep-set  glance,  muttered  something  as  he  turned 
away.  The  young  lady,  standing  alone,  and  still  persistently 
looking  river-wards,  thought  he  said,  "  tuberculosis,"  pay 
ing  little  attention,  however,  to  the  word  or  to  the  man. 
The  physician  was  a  Bostonian,  as  was  evident ;  a  gentle 
man. 

"All  aboard!" 

The  elder,  and  it  seemed  the  stronger,  of  the  solitary 
figures  on  the  wharf,  made  a  quick  movement  towards  the 
train.  He  spoke  with  a  keen  Yankee  stir  in  his  voice  :  — 

"  How  far  is  it  to  St.  Augustine  ?  " 

"  Eighteen  miles  !     All  aboard  !  " 

"  Eighteen  miles  ?     What  is  the  fare  ?  " 

"  Two  dollars  apiece,  sir !  Take  you  right  there,  sir  ! 
Cheap  at  that.  Just  hurry  up  a  little,  will  you,  please  ? 
Two  dollars  !  Eighteen  miles  !  All  aboard  there  !  Sorry 
to  go  without  you,  sir." 


256  CLOTH  OF   GOLD. 

The  boy  shook  his  head ;  he  went  slowly  back ;  the 
swift  New  England  animation  had  died  out  of  voice  and 
face. 

"  It  would  cost  us  four  dollars,  Dan  !  "  mournfully. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Dan,  "  I  guess  I  can  walk  it." 

He  spoke  with  that  enforced  cheerfulness  which  is  so 
much  sadder  than  a  moan  or  a  tear,  and  crept  to  his  feet 
as  he  spoke,  coughing. 

"  Never  mind,  Jim  !  Don't  bother,  Jim  !  I  can  walk  as 
well  as  not.  I  did  n't  come  way  down  here  to  be  scared  at 
a  little  walk.  Let  him  go  without  his  four  dollars  !  There, 
he 's  off,  and  I  'm  glad  of  it." 

"  All  a-boo-ard !  Last  chance,  sir !  Better  come  on  there 
with  that  sick  boy !  No  hotel  for  ye  in  this  city  ! "  the 
conductor,  glancing  about  the  desolated  landing,  called  with 
a  certain  blur  in  his  voice,  as  if  a  cinder  or  two  of  sympathy 
had  got  into  it ;  but  one  must  never  be  blinded  by  sympa 
thy  in  Florida,  or  honorable  trade  would  come  to  a  stand 
still.  Sick  people  are,  like  the  babies  of  Lamb's  acquaint 
ance,  "  too  common"  in  the  commercial  regions  of  American 
Italy. 

"  Dan  !  There 's  three  dollars  and  ninety -two  cents  left, 
yet ;  besides  the  chromios.  They  '11  take  us  for  that.  It 
does  n't  seem  as  if  I  could  let  you  walk  it,  Dan.  Come ! 
We  '11  get  aboard,  yet.  Let 's  run  !  " 

But  Dan,  upon  the  wharf,  sat  obstinately  still.  He  shook 
his  head  again  and  again.  He  had  not  come  all  the  way 
from  Boston  to  cost  Jim  (poor  Jim!)  four  dollars  for  a 
ride  of  eighteen  miles.  He  turned  over  their  heavy  old 
valise  laboriously  and  sat  upon  that  with  a  pallid  smile. 

"  You  can  go  without  us,  Jim  —  me  and  the  valise. 
We  'II  walk  !  " 

At  this  moment  the  young  lady  on  the  platform  of  the 
car  beckoned  suddenly  and  rapidly,  The  asthmatic  loco 
motive  hoarsely  shrieked.  The  elder  boy  ran  confusedly, 


CLOTH   OF  GOLD.  257 

not  knowing  why.  But  the  lady  pointed  to  Dan,  beckoning 
again,  and  violently  now,  while  she  seemed  making  some 
ineffectual  effort  to  find  the  conductor,  who  had  disappeared, 
or  to  stop  the  train,  which  had  stirred.  It  had  stirred,  it  had 
started,  it  had  gone.  The  boys  both  rose  to  their  feet  and 
stood  looking  after  it.  The  figure  of  the  young  girl  upon 
the  platform  seemed  to  shrink  and  droop  as  they  looked. 
She  slightly  threw  up  her  hands  with  the  gesture  of  one  in 
acute  disappointment,  and  then  suddenly,  with  a  swift, 
beautiful,  womanly  impulse,  —  as  unconscious  that  every 
passenger's  eye  was  now  upon  the  little  scene  as  a  lily  is 
unconscious  of  a  visitor  to  a  hot-house,  —  tore  off  a  blue 
veil  she  wore,  and  with  a  free,  fine  motion  tossed  it  towards 
the  river. 

"  There  !  "  said  Dan,  "  the  woman  in  the  blue  dress  has 
lost  her  veil.  Go  pick  it  up,  Jim,  and  mebbe  we  can  give 
it  to  her  when  we  get  there." 

But  Jim,  when  he  picked  up  the  twisted  gossamer  ball, 
found  within  a  bill  and  silver  pieces.  Three  dollars.  The 
rose,  too,  had  fallen,  snatched  away  by  the  sweeping  mo 
tion,  and  lay  entangled,  broken.  The  great,  firm,  shining 
petals  heaped  themselves  like  spilled  gold  coin  upon  the 
sand. 

"  Considered  as  an  act  of  benevolence,  my  dear,"  coughed 
Mrs.  Hepburn,  "  simply  as  an  act  of  benevolence,  fifty 
would  n't  materially  help  those  boys  in  a  country  where  you 
pay  two  dollars  to  go  eighteen  miles,  and  what  is  the  use 
of  three  ?  " 

Three  dollars  ;  and  a  blue  veil ;  a  rose-leaf,  and  a  swift, 
sweet,  womanly  thought.  What  was  the  use,  indeed  ?  The 
boys  looked  at  one  another.  They  felt  suddenly  rich  and 
protected  ;  they  had  grown  well  and  glad.  Dan  laughed, 
—  he  was  only  sixteen,  —  he  laughed  out  like  a  pleased 
child.  But  Jim  spoke  first ;  Jim  was  a  man  —  nineteen 
years  old,  and  supposed  to  know  what  was  fitting  to  do  or 
17 


258  CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 

say  on  any  given  occasion.  Dan  used  to  think  he  should 
like  to  see  the  things  Jim  would  n't  know  what  to  do  about. 
Why,  they  never  should  have  come  to  Florida  —  where  he 
was  going  to  get  well  and  tough  —  if  it  had  n't  been  for 
Jim.  Jim  knew  it  was  the  thing  to  do.  Jim  always  knew. 
Jim  had  said:  "I  can  sell  the  chromios,  and  we'll  find 
work  down  there."  Jim  always  knew  what  to  say. 

So  now  he  drew  himself  up  ;  his  lip  twitched  a  little  as 
he  looked  after  the  retreating  train  on  which  the  slender 
blue  figure  still  stood  intently.  He  folded  away  the  money 
silently.  He  did  not  immediately  speak.  Dan  began  to 
be  afraid  Jim  was  not  going  to  know  what  to  say.  But 
when  his  brother  gravely  said  at  length :  — 

"  That  is  a  good  woman,  Dan.  Let 's  take  extry  care  of 
her  veil,"  Dan  nodded  delightedly.  He  took  the  veil  him 
self  ;  he  folded  it  across  and  across  with  care,  and  reverently 
laid  it  under  his  waistcoat. 

Now  Dan  carried  a  book  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  the  little 
old  Testament  once  belonging  to  that  dead  mother  whom 
these  two  young  creatures  remembered  with  a  faint,  sweet 
sense  of  awe  and  mystery,  like  that  with  which  they  would 
remember  the  face  of  an  unusual  Madonna  seen,  and  seen 
but  once,  in  a  window  as  they  passed :  but  he  did  not  tell 
Jim  that  he  put  the  lady's  veil  between  the  leaves  of  the 
Testament.  It  was  not  necessary  to  talk  about  everything. 
One  of  the  great  petals  of  the  great  rose  had  slipped  be 
tween  the  folds  of  the  veil ;  but  he  did  not  talk  about  that 
either.  It  was  his  fancy  to  let  the  rose-leaf  stay. 

"  Now,"  said  Dan  bravely,  "  let  us  start,  Jim  ;  I  'm  quite 
ready.  You  could  n't  guess  how  tough  I  feel  to-night !  " 

They  started  bravely  and  tonghly  enough.  It  was  still 
quite  light.  Dim  in  the  distance  sped  the  retreating  steam 
er,  and  the  retreating  train  —  one  to  the  river,  one  to  the 
sea.  On  either  hand  the  well,  rich,  happy  people  fled  from 
them.  In  the  perfect  stillness  the  waves  of  the  St.  John's 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD.  259 

lapped  with  a  lazy  sound.  The  sun  slept  upon  the  pier  and 
in  the  little  freight-house  where  a  solitary  negro  was  sleepily 
closing  the  door.  Into  the  heart  of  the  forest,  mysterious, 
daring,  lonely,  cut  the  narrow  line  of  rails.  It  plunged 
into  swamp  and  thicket  recklessly;  it  seemed  like  an  un 
finished  story,  or  a  broken  word,  or  an  unfounded  hope. 
The  sense  of  incompletion  which  always  lends  so  subtle  and 
so  weird  a  sadness  to  a  railway  in  a  solitary  region  is  in 
tensified  to  an  exquisite  strain,  when  one  stands  watching 
the  fine,  diminishing  coil  of  smoke  marking  the  track  of 
the  now  unseen  train  that  spans  the  Florida  wilderness  from 
river  to  sea. 

"  There  !  it 's  gone  !  "  said  the  elder  boy  in  a  half-whisper, 
feeling  in  spite  of  himself  a  certain  awe  or  depression.  The 
smoke  had  melted.  The  track  was  bare.  The  negro  in 
the  freight-house  was  gone.  St.  John's  on  the  hot  beach 
whispered  hoarsely,  like  a  sick  man  speaking  in  a  foreign 
tongue.  The  two  boys,  as  they  turned  into  the  forest, 
seemed  to  be  the  only  breathing  souls  in  Florida. 

Thirteen  hundred  miles  from  home.  The  boys  glanced 
covertly  at  one  another's  faces  as  they  trudged  along,  step 
ping  heavily  across  the  uncertain  sleepers,  and  the  rude  and 
frequent  culverts.  The  road  lay  upon  little  piles,  defiant  of 
abounding  swamp  ;  the  forest  pressed  in  sturdily  on  either 
hand ;  on  the  tops  of  the  trees  the  light  struck  freely ;  in 
the  thickets  it  had  already  begun  to  darken ;  the  flame  of 
the  wild  oranges  was  fainting  ;  the  wreaths  of  moss  made 
delicate  tendrils  of  color  overhead,  that  seemed  to  grasp 
and  entwine  upon  the  sky ;  as  they  swung  and  dipped  into 
the  shadow,  they  took  on  sudden  ghastly  shades  like  the 
faces  of  the  ill  or  dying. 

"  Tired,  Dan  ?  " 

Jim  did  not  like  the  looks  of  Dan  as  they  toiled  along. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  they  walked  so  near  the  thicket, 
and  that  the  gray  moss  made  a  gray  shadow  upon  the  boy's 


260  CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 

pinched,  pathetic  face.  They  had  been  already  long  enough 
in  Florida  to  have  learned  the  fatal  story  of  the  gray  moss. 
It  is  treacherous  beauty,  it  is  demoniac  grace,  it  is  an  ex 
quisite  Medusa.  The  tree  which  shelters  it  must  die.  It  is 
bloodless,  relentless.  It  is  to  the  forest  what  the  devil-fish 
is  to  the  sea. 

The  elder  boy,  turning  his  brave  young  face  upwards  and 
inwards  through  the  mystery  of  the  wilderness,  with  that 
impatience  of  sorrow  and  blind  pursuit  of  hope  which  only 
a  young  face  wears,  felt  himself,  in  an  imaginative  fashion 
which  he  could  not  have  withstood,  because  he  could  not 
have  understood  it,  vaguely  disturbed  by  this  symbol  of 
death  and  decay.  He  hoped  Dan  did  not  see  the  grand  old 
cypresses  standing  in  the  shadow  stark  and  dead ;  nor  the 
pitiful  young  oaks  that  had  but  just  begun  to  die,  thrusting 
out  scant  foliage  through  the  coils  of  the  gray  vampire, 
like  struggling  hands. 

"Tired,  Dan?" 

"I  'm  first-rate  !  "  said  Dan,  nodding.  He  hoped  Jim  did 
not  notice  that  bother  in  his  breath.  He  had  never  had  so 
much  trouble  with  his  breath.  It  came  laboriously  at  the 
end  of  the  first  two  miles.  The  low,  purple  shadows  of  the 
everglades  seemed  to  crowd  about  him,  as  it  darkened,  like 
flocks  of  uncleanly  birds.  They  had  a  faint  sweetish  odor 
which  sickened  him.  He  shrank  when  they  touched  him 
as  if  he  had  felt  the  flap  of  cold  wings  against  his  head. 
Strange  sensations  seemed  to  await  him  as  he  walked  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  forest.  The  wilderness  itself  seemed  to 
become  embodied,  energetic,  like  a  vast  unknown  disease, 
and  grappled  with  him.  Singular  distresses  —  neither  sick 
ness  nor  faintness,  nor  altogether  pain,  nor  exactly  giddiness 
—  took  hold  of  him.  He  was  filled  with  unexampled  fear. 

Eighteen  miles.  Well.  If  only  Jim  would  n't  ask  him 
how  he  felt !  Poor  Jim  ! 

"  Tired,  Dan  ?  " 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD.  261 

"  Splendid  !  "  skid  Dan.  He  looked  up  ;  he  smiled  into 
his  brother's  face,  growing  dim,  now,  like  the  thicket  and 
the  forest  and  the  sky,  —  it  would  soon  be  dark.  It  was 
too  dark  now  for  Jim  to  see  what  a  pitiful  little  smile  that 
was.  To  have  that  "  splendid  "  without  that  smile  was  well 
worth  while.  Jim  tugged  at  the  heavy  valise  with  a  happy 
whistle. 

"  We  '11  be  there  before  we  know  it,  Dan,  if  only  you'll 
hold  out  as  well  as  this." 

"  Oh,  I  '11  hold  out,"  said  Dan.  But  after  that  he  did 
not  speak  again  for  a  long  time.  The  purple  shadow  in  the 
everglades  deadened  black ;  the  dull  shine  of  patches  of 
slimy  water  died  across  the  swamp  ;  above  the  tree-tops 
the  throbbing  color  of  the  sky  grew  faint ;  the  tendrils  of 
the  far  moss  seemed  to  relax  like  nerveless  fingers,  and  the 
ghastly  faces  which  had  troubled  Jim  to  turn  themselves 
over  solemnly  against  the  wall  of  the  night.  Strange  birds, 
whose  note  was  unfamiliar  to  the  northern  boys,  called  to 
each  other  mournfully  from  unseen  nests.  Strange  sounds, 
from  unknown  creatures  of  the  wood  or  swamp,  glided 
stealthily  to  and  fro  about  them.  Now  and  then  a  cow, 
that  the  departed  train  had  disturbed,  wandering  yet  un- 
summoned  to  the  home  of  some  solitary  cracker  in  the  for 
est,  plunged  heavily  into  the  thicket,  or  out  of  it,  as  they 
passed.  In  the  dimness  these  creatures  showed  gigantic  and 
wild. 

"  Jim  ?  "  said  Dan  at  length  in  the  slow,  plaintive  voice 
in  which  excitement  has  given  place  to  endurance. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Jim.  "  Most  there  !  Ain't  very  tired, 
be  you,  Dan  ?  " 

"  Not  very  tired,  Jim,"  more  slowly ;  "  I  was  only  wonder 
ing,  you  ain't  homesick  now,  I  guess.  You  never  are  home 
sick,  are  you,  Jim?  " 

"  Me  and  you  have  n't  got  so  much  to  be  homesick  over, 
if  you  come  to  that."  Jirn  spoke  gruffly.  "  There 's  Mis' 


262  CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 

Green ;  and  the  cat ;  and  the  lame  dog  ;  and  the  crooked 
boarder  into  the  attic  rear." 

"  And  the  fellow  at  Jobbs's  that  brought  me  the  orange 
when  I  was  first  sick,"  interrupted  Dan.  eagerly ;  "  and  that 
little  girl  of  Peter's  that  made  me  tissue-paper  roses  ;  and 
the  last  boss  I  worked  for  at  the  factory,  —  he  did  n't  jaw, 
that  boss  didn't;  and  Betty  Poggin's  hen,  now,  Jim,  that 
come  over  to  be  fed  when  we  had  crackers  for  dinner,  — 
would  n't  you  like  to  see  Betty  Poggin's  hen,  to-night  ?  " 

"  Rather  see  Augustine !  "  growled  Jim  ;  he  walked  on 
faster,  with  a  jerk  at  the  valise.  "  Folks  with  homes  and 
mothers  and  places  to  go  to  when  they  're  sick  can  afford 
to  be  homesick,  Dan.  We  ain't  no  call  that  way." 

"  And  sisters,"  added  Dan,  coughing.  "  If  we  had  a  place 
to  go  to,  we  'd  have  a  sister  in  it,  would  n't  we,  Jim  ?  Like 
her  that  tossed  us  the  veil.  I  'd  like  my  sister  to  wear  a 
blue  veil  —  soft  and  with  a  sweet  smell  to  it  like  that," 
said  Dan  audaciously.  "  But  /ain't  homesick,  either.  Only 
I  'd  like  to  know  if  the  crooked  boarder  stayed  his  time 
out.  I  wonder  if  Jobbs's  boys  '11  ever  get  to  Florida.  He 
said  he  meant  to  come  some  winter  peddlin'." 

"  Jim  ?  "  —  presently,  "  I  'd  like  to  see  the  cat.  And  the 
dog.  I  '11  be  glad  when  I  get  well  and  we  go  home.  Do 
you  suppose  Mis'  Green  misses  us  any  ?  " 

There  has  been  a  silence  in  which  the  rasp  of  the  boy's 
labored  breathing  is  louder  to  Jim's  ear  than  any  of  the 
voices  of  the  strange,  unhomelike  night.  "  Do  you  sup 
pose," —  more  slowly  and  more  plaintively,  "Do  you  sup 
pose,  Jim,  all  these  folks  we  saw  in  the  car,  are  going 
somewhere  ?  " 

"  Why  yes,"  said  Jim  with  a  practical  air,  "  they  're 
going  to  Augustine.  And  so  are  we.  Be  there  pretty 
soon.  Ain't  tired,  are  you,  Dan  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  not  tired,  Jim,"  faintly,  "  but  I  meant,  were 
they  going  to  folks  ?  There  '11  be  somebody  glad  to  see  'em, 
won't  there  ?  " 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD.  263 

"Mebbe,"  said  Jim  shortly.  "Hurt  you  to  breathe, 
Dan  ?  I  did  n't  know  it  was  so  cold  in  Florida.  Want 
to  rest  a  bit?" 

"  It  is  a  little  cold  —  for  Florida,"  shivered  Dan,  with 
the  wise  air  of  an  old  resident.  "  But  I  don't  mind.  And 
it  does  n't  hurt  me  very  much  to  breathe.  We  're  most 
there,  ain't  we  ?  I  can  get  along  nicely,  if  we  're  most 
there." 

"  Do  you  think,"  —  presently  again,  "  do  you  think,  Jim, 
there  '11  be  anybody  glad  to  see  us  when  we  get  there  ?  " 

"  I  've  heard  they  're  very  fond  of  Northerners  in 
Florida,"  said  Jim,  sententiously. 

"  I  guess  they  are,"  returned  the  boy  cheerfully.  "  We  've 
been  a-travelin'  so  long.  I  'd  like  somebody  to  be  glad  to 
see  us.  That  was  what  I  liked  about  that  lame  dog.  He 
was  always  glad  to  see  me.  And  Mis'  Green  she  let  me 
feed  him.  He  'd  eat  my  dinner  when  you  was  off  to  work  ; 
but  I  did  n't  want  the  dinner,  Jim,  you  know.  Do  you  re 
member  the  day  Mis'  Green  broiled  me  the  herrings  ?  She 
was  always  good  to  us,  Mis'  Green  was,  nelse  it  was  wash- 
in'  or  ironin',  or  mebbe  bakin'  or  sweepin'  or  rent  days,  or 
some  such  times.  And  I  don't  think  the  room  was  quite 
so  cold  as  we  thought  it  was,  come  to  think  of  it,  —  after 
we  put  the  weskit  in  the  window  and  puttied  up  the  other 
panes.  But  I  ain't  homesick,  Jim.  I'm  glad  we  come  to 
Florida." 

The  two  young  travelers  are  walking  slowly  now  ;  very, 
very  slowly.  It  is  too  dark  to  walk  fast,  and  one  stumbles 
so  against  the  rickety  sleepers,  and  the  feet  plunge  suddenly 
into  sodden  sand  or  oozing  water,  and  now  and  then  one 
falls  heavily  in  groping  on.  It  is  deadly  dark.  It  is  deadly 
still.  Throughout  the  sweep  of  the  vast  wilderness  there  is 
no  sign  of  human  life.  The  boys  can  hear  their  own  heart 
beats  if  they  pause,  half-frightened,  to  listen,  hand  in  hand. 
The  faint  odors  from  the  swamps  deepen  and  sweeten  like 


264  CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 

rare  poisons.  The  painful  breathing  of  the  sick  child  be 
comes  a  spasmodic,  strangling  cough.  He  stops  frequently 
to  rest.  They  sit  down  side  by  side,  shivering  together, 
upon  the  hard,  damp  hummocks  that  lift  themselves  above 
the  stagnant  pools.  The  wilderness  closes  around  them, 
solidly,  like  walls.  They  seem  to  sit,  prisoners  in  a  little 
cell  of  blackness.  They  look  up,  far,  at  the  faint  sky  in 
which  the  stars  are  pulsing  now.  The  two  poor  young 
things  —  these  strangers  in  a  strange  land  —  receive  dimly 
a  sense  of  welcome  from  the  sky. 

"  Seems  as  if  they  was  glad  to  see,  anyhow,  Jim." 

"  Who  ?  " 

"  The  stars.  I  've  seen  a  star  like  that  one  out  of  Mis' 
Green's  window.  It  was  one  night  when  there  was  n't  bed- 
close  enough,  and  I  laid  awake  to  keep  warm.  When  we 
get  out  of  these  woods,  it  '11  be  warm  in  Florida,  won't  it, 
Jim?" 

"  Warm  as  toast !  "  said  Jim.     "  Ain't  very  tired,  Dan  ?  " 

"Not  very  tired;"  hopefully,  —  "Jim,  do  you  think  I 
shall  get  well  in  Florida  ?  " 

After  a  pause,  again  :  "  You  expect  to  sell  the  chromios 
till  I  get  well,  don't  you  ?  You  expect  they  '11  buy  a  lot  of 
chromios  in  Florida,  don't  you  ?  " 

Dan  has  walked  in  perfect  silence  for  now,  a  long  time  ; 
he  pulls  heavily  upon  his  brother's  hand  like  an  exhausted 
child.  "  Most  there,  aint  we  ?  I  —  must  —  sit  —  down.  I  — 
can't  "  —  sinking  slowly  down  again,  "  You  're  glad  we  came 
to  Florida,  ain't  you,  Jim?  " 

"  Considered  as  a  work  of  art,  purely  as  a  work  of  art, 
you  know,  it  is  an  atrocity,"  said  the  lady,  plaintively. 

"Ma'am?"  said  Jim. 

"  A  chromo,  young  man,  is  to  the  world  of  art  what  a 
theft  or  a  murder  is  to  the  moral  world.  The  trader  in 
chromos,  considered  generically  as  a  trader  in  chromes,  ought 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD.  265 

to  be  held  legally  responsible  for  the  enormities  which  he 
commits.  We  talk  of  crimes  and  criminals.  The  degrada 
tion  of  art "  — 

"  Mamma  dear  ?  " 

The  trader  in  chromos  looked  confusedly  around.  The 
soft  voice  reached  him  distinctly  ;  but  the  speaker  was  hid 
den  mysteriously  somewhere  overhead,  behind  the  blinds  of 
the  great  coquina  house.  It  was  dead  December  noon  — 
white-hot  in  St.  Augustine.  The  house  was  closed  and 
dark.  Long  shadows  slept  upon  the  painfully  cultivated 
lawn.  Vivid  Florida  foliage  sheltered  a  rose-garden  which 
curved,  crescent-wise,  across  the  place,  and  shone  softly  ; 
it  seemed  like  a  rainbow  thrown  down  by  mistake.  The 
leaves  of  orange-trees  glittered  like  the  fine  scales  of  jointed, 
jeweled  armor  worn  in  defiance  of  the  arrows  of  the  hot 
headed  sun.  In  the  air  was  the  undefined  perfume  of  buds 
yet  unopened  and  unseen.  To  poor  Jim's  eyes  vistas  of 
magnificence  opened  beyond  the  great  door  of  the  deep, 
cool  hall.  The  wind  blew  from  the  water,  and  the  veranda 
faced  the  blessed  sea. 

Jim,  dusty,  hot,  anxious,  gaunt,  —  leaned  against  one  of 
the  great  veranda  pillars.  He  was  sorry  when  he  heard 
the  lady  cough.  But  she  would  get  well.  Dan  would  have 
got  well  in  such  a  house  as  this. 

"Mamma  dear?"  The  blind  stirred  softly  overhead, 
letting  a  gleam  of  rose-color  through  from  shadowed  walls 
and  ceiling,  "  suppose  you  take  a  chromo.  Never  mind 
about  the  degradation  of  art,  just  now.  It  must  be  so  hard 
to  make  a  living  that  way,  don't  you  think,  mamma  ?  Take 
me  one  for  a  Christmas  present,"  laughing  softly.  "  I  'd 
come  down,  only,"  whispering,  "  don't  tell  the  chromo-man, 
but —  I  'm  in  my  dressing-sack  !  " 

"  Will  you  have*  something  mediasval,  my  dear  ?  Here  's 
an  indigo  Madonna  on  a  gamboge  sky.  Or  a  genre  piece. 
I  find  a  choice  bit  in  that  line.  It  is  called  The  Twins. 


266  CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 

They  part  their  curls  alike  to  a  hair,  and  are  clutching  two 
separate  and  individual  black-and-tan  terriers,  as  a  piece  de 
resistance,  in  their  separate  and  individual  right  hands. 
Beautiful  studies  from  still  life ;  peaches  and  a  cucumber 

—  three  for  twenty -five  cents,  my  dear !     Oh,  and  a  vin 
egar  cruet  and  lobster  salad.     Or  perhaps  you  'd  prefer  a 
chicken  ?     Or  an  angel.     Here  's  an  angel  in  Naples  yel 
low,  put  out  to  pasture  in  a  field  of  emerald  green.     And 

—  oh,  shade  of  Correggio  !    His  Magdalene  in  Indian  red — 
with  an  arm  —     Here,  Mr.  Peddler !     Give  me  a  dozen 
and  go.     And  when  you  Ve  sold  them  all,  I  advise  you,  as  a 
mother,  select  some  occupation  less  perilous  to  the  interests 
of  the  country,  and  more  soothing  to  the  individual  con 
science I  don't  wonder  you  look  pale.     Call  it  two 

dozen,  and  make  haste !     There  !  " 

Jim's  eyes  (despite  a  little  perplexity,  for  he  found  his 
customer  more  or  less  mysterious)  glistened  faintly  at  the 
unprecedented  luck  ;  but  very  faintly  :  and  he  walked  away 
without  a  smile.  The  Naples  yellow  angel  might  have 
arisen  from  the  old  valise  (he  had  six  of  her)  and  walked 
beside  him,  or  the  indigo  Madonna  herself  bought  out  his 
stock ;  he  would  hardly  have  cared  to-day.  What  a  lark 
they  would  have  had  over  it  once  !  Nobody  could  be  hap 
pier  over  a  stroke  of  luck  than  Dan.  And  two  dozen 
chromos  !  Perhaps,  even  now  —  Jim  began  to  whistle  in 
spite  of  himself,  as  he  crossed  the  rose-garden,  stepping 
from  the  rainbow  to  the  dense  cloud  of  the  orange-grove ; 
and  the  young  girl,  shrinking  behind  the  blind  in  her  dainty 
undress,  in  the  rose-heart  of  the  shining  room,  leaning  one 
soft  cheek  dreamily  upon  a  soft  shoulder — a  cheek  like  a 
shell,  upon  a  shoulder  like  a  foam-flake  —  listened  to  the 
sound  with  happy,  parted  lips.  She  had  that  faint,  sweet 
sense  of  having  partially  earned  the  right  to  be  happy, 
which  makes  a  kind  act,  to  a  sensitive  nature,  the  necessary 
condition  of  content ;  and  even  the  element  of  sadness  which 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD.  267 

most  kind  acts  introduce  into  the  imagination,  beautiful  only 
as  the  gentle  darkness  of  the  Claude  Lorraine  in  which  the 
sunrise  shines  softer  and  more  fair. 

St.  Augustine  keeps  Christmas  week  as  if  the  Lord  were 
born  entirely  on  her  account.  This  is  very  natural.  St. 
Augustine  is  a  little  world ;  has  its  own  axis,  its  own  orbit ; 
its  own  astronomy  ;  spins  serenely  through  the  chaos  of  the 
Florida  wildness  to  the  music  of  its  own  sweet  sphere. 
Sufferers  my  seek  her  for  healing ;  revelers  may  woo  her 
for  pleasure ;  but  they  are  visitants  from  another  planet, 
after  all:  seek  they  never  so  wisely,  woo  they  never  so 
passionately,  yield  she  never  so  graciously,  they  may  be  in 
her  world,  but  they  are  not  of  it.  She  is  like  a  reserved 
and  beautiful  woman  —  she  keeps  them  seekers  and  lovers 
forever.  There  are  other  worlds  to  be  ordered  —  that  is 
plain.  There  may  be  other  sinners  to  be  saved  —  that  is 
possible.  But  meanwhile,  in  this  matter  of  Christmas,  St. 
Augustine  is  so  sure  that  Christ  came  for  love  of  her,  that 
her  full  heart  overflows  with  an  intense,  individual  joy,  at 
c^ce  a  humility  and  an  inspiration  to  see. 

u  Verily,"  wrote  Latimer  to  Cranmer,  on  the  birth  of  a 
son  to  the  king,  "  God  hath  showed  himself  the  God  of 
England,  or  rather  we  may  say,  an  JEnglish  God." 

So  it  seems  St.  Augustine,  in.  her  heart  of  hearts,  did  she 
but  admit  it,  were  fain  to  consider  Him  a  Floridian. 

Thus,  at  least,  one  visitor,  strolling  through  her  quaint 
and  quiet  streets  one  vivid  morning  of  the  Christmas  week, 
entertained  himself  by  fancying. 

The  sweet  alien  sound  of  matins  in  the  old  Cathedral,  the 
shadows  of  the  robed  priest  on  the  coquina  walls  of  the  gray 
monastery,  the  placid  faces  of  the  sisters  from  the  convent, 
the  flitting  of  the  incense-boys  on  mysterious  Christmas 
business,  the  faint  glow  of  reverent  expectance  on  the  faces 
of  the  Catholic  natives,  the  swiftly  growing  presence  of  the 


2G8  CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 

fair  sign  of  cross  and  wreath  in  the  windows  of  obscure 
Negro  and  Minorcan  homes,  even  the  preparation  for  the 
crude  worship  of  fireworks,  like  a  northern  Fourth  of  July, 
all  the  indefinite  sense  of  hope  and  holiday  which  gave  an 
atmosphere  to  the  place,  seemed  to  the  northern  gentleman 
to  form  a  sort  of  sacred  exhilaration  such  as  no  northern 
Christmas  could  give  him  though  he  sought  it,  and  which 
here  he  experienced,  as  one  always  experiences  the  finest 
intoxications,  imperiously,  despite  the  resistance  of  his  nat 
ure.  The'  wonderful  wine-like  southern  sunlight  either 
added  to  this  impression,  or  created  it,  it  was  impossible  to 
say  which  ;  and  the  high,  warm  winds  that  swept  the  widen 
ing  southern  heavens  chanted  a  deepening  Te  Deum  to  the 
reverent  ear.  It  seemed  to  Dr.  Frankrow  as  if  the  very 
roses  which  he  had  come  out  to  order  for  Miss  Hepburn's 
Christmas  party,  —  the  cream,  the  blush,  the  pearl,  the  car 
mine  and  the  snow,  and  the  royal  gold,  —  the  warm,  rich, 
riotous  roses,  lifted  their  fair  faces  at  once  tenderly  and  loft 
ily  as  if  conscious  that  they  too  were  members  of  the  body  of 
the  beautiful  lost  earth,  which  eighteen  hundred  years  ago 
was  placed  in  the  tiny  hands  of  an  obscurely  born  Baby  to 
redeem.  It  seemed  as  if  Christmas  in  Florida  meant  more 
than  it  could  under  a  more  reticent  sun.  The  very  flowers 
had  souls  here,  and  would  have  part  in  the  solemn  privilege 
of  the  holy  time.  Indeed,  why  not  ?  Would  Christ  forget 
the  roses  when  He  saved  the  sinners  ?  God  had  created 
many  a  soul  less  fair,  less  pure,  less  worthy  of  being,  than 
those  sensitive,  it  seemed  sentient,  hearts  of  scent  and  color. 
Might  they  not  then  have  part  in  the  great  ennobling,  the 
great  idealizing,  which  was  promised  to  all  earth-born  and 
imperfect  beauty  ?  Would  roses  some  day  bud  in  heaven 
as  never  roses  blossomed  upon  earth,  for  his  dear  sake  ? 

She  was  saying  something  like  that  yesterday. 

Had  he  caught  the  sweet  tricks  of  her  fancies  already,  so 
that  he  could  not  distinguish  them  from  his  own  ?  He  bent 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD.  269 

over  the  cloth-of-gold  roses  with  a  man's  slow,  deep,  painful 
blush. 

Ah  well ;  own  up  to  it  like  a  man  !  here  among  the  roses. 
They  would  never  tell.  The  palpitating  southern  sunlight 
which  crowned  the  flowers,  the  world,  the  future,  in  a  sud 
den  glory,  would  be  dumb.  Own,  then,  that  he  loved  her  ! 
He  loved  her.  Any  man  would.  He  loved  her  —  and  it 
was  Christmas  week.  And  the  roses  —  could  not  Florida 
roses  speak? 

He  broke  them  delicately,  nervously,  lavishly  ;  he  heaped 
his  arms  with  the  choicest  that  the  great  and  famous  gar 
dens  held.  To  the  northern  gentleman,  —  standing  flower- 
laden,  rapt,  an  inexpressible  radiance  within  his  eyes,  such 
as  perhaps  might  only  be  seen  in  the  eyes  of  a  man  in  love, 
on  Christmas  week,  and  in  St.  Augustine,  —  appeared  sud 
denly  a  haggard,  grimy,  panting  boy.  He  stood  in  the  hot 
road  and  looked  over  the  fence,  which  he  griped  with  both 
his  hands. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  to  find  a  doctor  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  can.     What  do  you  want  of  a  doctor  ?  " 

"  I  've  got  a  brother  sick.  He  would  n't  have  a  doctor. 
He  's  very  sick,  sir  !  I  want  to  get  back  to  him.  But  I 
must  find  them  both  first,  the  doctor  and  the  lady." 

«  The  lady  ?  " 

"  There 's  a  lady  that  he 's  set  his  soul  on  seeing.  I  've 
got  to  hunt  her  up.  Mebbe  you  can  tell  me  where  she  is, 
sir  ?  "  said  Jim,  innocently. 

"  Perhaps  I  can,"  said  the  other,  without  a  smile.  "  Do 
you  know  her  name  ?  " 

tl  Oh,  no,"  said  Jim  dejectedly,  "  nor  nothin'  about  her. 
Only  she  tossed  us  a  veil  —  Dan  says  it  is  a  veil.  There 
was  money  in  it.  We  was  at  Tocoi.  Dan  wants  to  give 
her  back  the  veil.  I  promised  him  I  'd  find  her.  I  calc'- 
late  to  keep  a  promise  that  I  make  —  to  Dan.  I  'd  like  to 
find  the  lady." 


270  CLOTH  OF   GOLD. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Dan  ?  " 

u  The  cough.  And  yesterday  and  to-day  he  bleeds  dread 
fully,"  said  Jim,  with  a  sudden,  sick  look.  "I  sold  two 
dozen  chromios  yesterday  at  one  place,  but  when  I  got 
back  he  choked  so  that  I  dares  n't  tell  him,  to  talk  about 
it." 

"  How  long  has  the  lad  been  sick  ?  " 

"  A  year,  sir  ;  off  and  on,  but  not  like  this.  He  thinks 
it  wa*s  the  moss,  sir." 

"  The  moss  ?  " 

"Pie  took  a  notion  again  the  moss  that  hangs  acrost  the 
trees.  They  told  us  up  to  Jacksonville  it  eet  out  people's 
lives.  It  was  in  the  swamp,  from  walking  over.  We  walked 
over  from  Tocoi." 

"  Oh  !  walked  ?     That  malarial  night  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  it  took  a  good  spell ;  we  had  to  set  and  rest :  Dan 
choked  unless  he  set  to  rest  pretty  often.  He  give  out  be 
fore  we  got  in.  We  spent  that  night  in  the  woods.  It  was 
pretty  damp.  Next  day  we  went  round  and  round.  I  got 
him  some  breakfast  at  a  hotel  —  but  it  took  a  good  deal  of 
money.  If  I  'd  had  a  place  to  let  him  rest  that  day  —  but 
I  dares  n't  ask  it.  I  went  here  and  there,  you  know,  sir, 
and  it  was  nigh  midnight  before  I  got  a  place  to  stop.  We 
're  stoppin'  at  an  old  darkey's  out  beyond  the  Gates.  It 's 
pretty  dirty,  and  they  make  us  pay  'em  every  mornin',  and 
he  ain't  willin'  to  take  the  chromios,"  said  Jim,  sadly.  "  And 
Dan  he 's  homesick  to  die  among  folks.  Dan  never  did  like 
darkies  much." 

"  Have  you  friends  at  home  ?  " 

"  Only  the  woman  where  we  boarded,  and  the  dog  he 
talks  about,  and  such,  sir.  I  have  n't  any  folks.  Our  folks 
died  when  we  was  little,  and  we  was  all  scattered.  You  've 
heard  tell  of  a  place  they  call  the  '  Little  Wanderer's  Home," 
in  Boston  ?  " 

Yes ;  he  had  heard  of  it. 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 


271 


"  We  come  from  there  —  Dan  and  me." 

"Ah?" 

"  Yes  ;  we  was  parceled  out  in  families  nigh  together,  in 
New  York  State.  Dan,  he  learned  a  plasterer's  trade,  'pren 
tice  —  but  the  lime  got  into  his  breathing.  And  once  he 
was  in  an  organ  factory,  but  that  was  to  Boston.  I  was  a 
grocer's  boy  at  the  start ;  but  I  took  to  pictures.  And  after 
Dan  began  to  be  poorly,  we  come  back  to  Boston.  Then 
we  come  here.  I  worked  my  way  down  in  a  Savannah 
steamer.  I  thought  I  'd  find  work  down  here.  I  expected 
to  sell  a  good  many  chromios.  I  did  n't  think  it  would  have 
been  so  hard  to  make  a  living  here.  And  Dan  's  lost  an 
awful  sight.  I  tried  to  do  what  I  thought  was  right.  But 
I  wish  we  'd  never  come  to  Florida." 

Jim  has  a  manly  young  lip,  but  it  trembles  ;  and  dry, 
deep-set  Yankee  eyes,  but  they  dim. 

"  I  've  set  up  with  him  for  ten  nights.  I  'm  most  beat 
out.  But  I  said  I  'd  find  the  lady.  He  thought  it  would 
cost  too  much  to  have  a  doctor.  But  I  can  pay  him  in 
chromios.  And  a  doctor 'd  think  more  of  chromios  than 
these  darkies  do,"  said  poor  Jim.  A  sense  of  high,  personal 
culture  struggled  through  his  grief.  He  held  up  his  head 
with  a  tear  on  his  cheek.  The  swift  New  England  pride 
glanced  across  his  pathetic  mouth. 

"  Perhaps  you  're  from  Boston,  sir  ?  "  said  Jim. 
"  Come,"  said  the  Boston  gentleman,  "  come  away  to  the 
lady." 

They  found  her  standing  in  her  own  rose-garden.  Her 
tender,  young  face  wore  a  flitting  shadow.  It  was  too  bad 
to  spoif  a  rainbow  for  a  party  !  The  rose-garden  should  not 
be  touched.  She  stood  breast-high  among  the  flowers. 
She  wore  a  dress  of  pale  blue,  the  color  of  a  partly-clouded, 
far,  June  sky.  Her  hair  and  eyes  shone  when  she  turned 
suddenly  at  the  low  sound  of  her  name.  She  stood  quite 


272  CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 

still  —  an  Iris  in  a  prism  —  stretching  out  her  hands  with  a 
pretty,  appealing  gesture  of  welcome  that  she  had.  She 
had  delicate  hands,  and  she  used  them  with  the  motions 
which  only  delicate  breeding  and  a  life  of  ease  can  give  to 
a  woman's  hand.  Dr.  Frankrow  remembered  for  a  long 
time  after  what  a  delicate  and  sheltered  look  she  had  that 
morning,  and  how  untouched  by  care  appeared  her  lifted 
face.  He  remembered  thinking  how  she  seemed  a  creature 
set  apart  from  the  striving,  black  world  —  such  a  world  as 
that  in  which  this  haggard  boy  lived,  moved,  and  had  his 
being.  She  was  as  alien  to  it  as  the  wild  rose-curlew  is  to 
the  Florida  marsh  over  which  it  flies,  slender,  shining,  unap 
proachable.  Circumstances  in  Miss  Hepburn's  life,  of  which 
he  had  received  dim  perceptions,  gave  a  zest  to  these  fan 
cies  ;  and  he  had  all  a  young  man's  (and  a  Bostonian's)  in 
stinctive  delight  in  the  outer  symbols  of  inner  gentleness  in 
the  lady  of  his  choice.  He  was  glad  with  all  his  soul  that 
she  was  a  happy,  idolized  girl,  to  whom  life  had  never 
brought  a  labor,  a  perplexity,  nor  a  care.  Her  own  Christ 
mas  roses  should  not  bloom  as  tenderly  —  Heaven  helping 
him  !  —  as  she  should  —  Heaven  bless  her  !  —  if  he  won  her 
to  the  eternal  Florida  summers  of  his  daring  heart. 

He  silently  and  tremulously  unloaded  his  arm  of  its  fra 
grant  burden  ;  the  flowers  lay  at  her  feet  in  the  shadow 
of  the  orange  grove.  He  took  a  bud  of  the  cloth  of  gold, 
scarcely  knowing  that  he  did  so,  or  why  he  did  so,  .and, 
bowing  his  agitated  face  over  it,  laid  it  in  her  hand. 

Jim,  too,  said,  "  Heaven  bless  her !  "  But  nobody  heard 
him,  and  it  did  not  matter. 

She  joined  them  without  a  curious  or  hesitating  word. 
"  Hers  not  to  question  why."  Since  the  poor  lad  wanted 
her  that  was  enough.  She  stepped  from  her  rainbow  to  the 
shadow  of  the  orange  grove  in  a  sweet  and  serious  silence. 
Dr.  Frankrow  stood  to  let  her  pass,  and  she  and  the  chromo 
peddler  stepped  out  together  into  the  dusty  road. 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD.  273 

"  She  looks  like  that  blue  chromic,"  said  Dan,  weakly. 
Jim  had  thought  so,  on  the  way  over.  He  took  the  Ma 
donna  out  of  the  valise,  shyly,  when  Dan  mentioned  the 
likeness,  and  put  it  up  against  the  smoky  wall. 

She  was  kneeling  by  the  poor  lad's  bed.  In  her  pale, 
transparent  dress,  with  her  shining  hair  and  hands  and  eyes 
she  made,  the  Christmas  lover  thought,  a  luminous  life  in 
the  miserable  room,  as  if  there  had  fallen  into  it,  indeed,  a 
creature  of  the  holy  sky. 

"  I  'm  glad  to  see  you,  ma'am,"  said  Dan. 

"  I  am  glad  to  be  here,"  said  the  young  girl,  gravely.  "  I 
am  sorry  to  find  you  so  very,  very  ill.  I  remember  seeing 
you  before.  You  have  had  a  hard  time  in  Florida." 

"  You  won't  tell  Jim,  will  you,  if  I  tell  you  something  ?  " 

"  No,  I  won't  tell  Jim." 

"  I  wish  we  had  n't  come  to  Florida.  We  had  n't  got  the 
money  to  get  well  in  Florida.  I  thought  I  should  get  well. 
But  don't  mention  that  to  Jim.  He  tried  so  hard  to  sell  the 
chromios ! " 

"  And  now,"  said  Dan  again,  in  a  confused,  pathetic  whis 
per,  "  if  I  've  got  to  die,  I  'd  rather  die  to  home  at  Mrs. 
Green's.  I  know  the  dog  would  like  to  see  me,  —  and 
Jobbs's  boy,  perhaps,  and  the  cat.  I  have  n't  got  anybody 
in  Florida.  We  're  thirteen  hundred  miles  from  home." 

A  silence  falls  upon  the  very  face  of  the  sunshine  that 
dozes  on  the  miserable  floor.  It  is  plain -from  the  physi 
cian's  look  that  the  stifling  hut  is  becoming  fast  a  solemn 
and  a  sacred  place.  Jim  turns  his  face  towards  the  indigo 
Madonna,  and  hides  it  in  his  hands  beneath  the  pity  of  her 
supernaturally  round  eyes.  The  wide,  warm  Christmas  eve 
comes  slowly  on.  The  chattering  of  the  Negroes  hushes  yi 
the  hut,  and  in  the  street  outside.  From  the  distant  Ca 
thedral  the  sound  of  Christmas  chant  floats  faintly.  The 
wooden  shutter  which  has  been  drawn  across  the  window 
flaps  suddenly  and  heavily  back.  Jim,  with  a  start,  closes 
18 


274  CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 

it  in  again  solidly.  Through  that  window  Jini,  the  phy 
sician,  the  lady,  and  the  boy  upon  the  bed,  can  see  the  out 
line  of  the  old  city  churchyard,  behind  which  the  sun  will 
soon  set  in  the  fair  Florida  colors  that  die  but  to  live  again 
in  the  Florida  Christmas  dawn. 

"  I  sent  for  you  to  give  you  back  —  your  veil.  You  was 
very  good  to  us.  I  've  kept  —  the  veil."  The  poor  lad 
preludes  the  word  with  a  reverent  pause.  "  I  've  kept  it  in 
a  place  where  it  shouldn't  get  a  harm.  I'll  show  you. 
It 's  in  a  Bible.  It  was  my  mother's  Bible.  She  has  her 
name  in  it.  I  thought  you'd  like  to  see  it." 

He  puts  the  book  into  her  hands,  and  the  perfumed  veil 
falls  out  and  flutters  down.  The  leaf  of  a  dead  rose  falls, 
too,  leaving  an  evanescent  scent  of  its  own,  swift  as  a  van 
ishing  soul,  upon  the  air.  The  young  girl  kneeling,  blue- 
robed,  reverent,  turns  the  fly-leaf  of  the  book,  and  reads. 
Over  her  head  the  blue-robed  Madonna,  with  the  deathless 
maternal  yearning  which  even  an  indigo  "  chromio  "  can 
not  quench,  looks  silently.  Faint  and  far  from  the  Cathe 
dral  sounds  on  the  Christmas  chant. 

"  Jim  ?  "  The  pathetic,  interrupted  whisper  hits  against 
the  hush.  "  I  let  her  look  at  mother's  Bible.  It 's  — 
almost  like  having  —  own  folks  —  in  Florida  to  see  a 


"  Dr.  Frankrow  !  " 

Calla  Hepburn  gently  laid  down  the  little  old  book.  A 
change,  marked  as  that  upon  the  faces  of  the  dying,  or  as 
the  look  of  one  suddenly  restored  to  life,  had  fallen  upon 
her.  It  might  be  that  she  had  grown  very  pale.  A  daz 
zling  color  seemed  to  have  crowned  her.  To  those  who 
saw  her,  her  young  face  shone  as  it  had  been  the  face  of  an 
angel. 

"  Dr.  Frankrow,  will  you  step  aside  with  me  one  mo 
ment?  I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you." 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD.  275 

He  stepped  beside  her  and  she  closed  the  door.  They 
stood  in  the  little  garden-plot  belonging  to  the  hut,  sheltered 
by  high  coquina  walls.  The  sun  dreamed  upon  the  strag 
gling,  dusty  flowers.  The  square  of  sky  above  them  seemed 
to  stoop  to  meet  them  where  they  stood.  By  the  closing  of 
the  door  the  sound  of  poor  Dan's  cruel  breathing  was  quite 
shut  out.  They  seemed  to  stand  alone  in  the  world  in  that 
one  moment,  among  the  dying  flowers,  beneath  the  stooping 
sky  —  they  two. 

Miss  Hepburn,  looking  up  into  the  young  man's  face,  was 
suddenly,  though  it  were  difficult  to  see  how,  made  conscious 
of  this.  Her  own  face  indefinably  changed  its  expression 
for  an  instant.  Her  eyes  sought  the  dying  flowers  before 
she  spoke. 

"  You  knew,  Dr.  Frankrow,"  she  said  at  last  in  a  low,  but 
perfectly  even  voice,  "  something,  I  think,  of  my  history  ?  " 

He  knew  that  she  was  the  adopted  daughter  of  Mrs. 
Hepburn ;  certainly ;  little  else ;  he  hastened  to  deprecate 
being  made  the  recipient  of  any  allusions  painful  to  her 
self  ;  but  his  clear-cut,  high-bred  features  sharpened  ;  he  put 
out  his  hand  as  they  stood  there,  impulsively,  incoherently, 
as  one  does  in  pushing  something  away  from  one  in  the 
dark. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  which  is  painful  to  myself  "  — 
the  young  girl  lifted  her  head  —  "  Mr.  Hepburn  took  me 
from  a  place  of  public  charity.  My  parents  could  not  help 
that ;  they  died.  One  is  not  ashamed  of  one's  parents  for 
being  dead.  Dr.  Frankrow,  that  is  my  mother's  name  in  the 
old  Testament.  What  is  the  matter  ?  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

No ;  he  was  not  ill ;  only  a  trifle  dizzy ;  the  sun  glared 
so,  in  this  dusty  garden The  boys,  then  ? 

"  The  boys  are  my  brothers." 

And  she  proposed  to  —  do  what  ? 

"  Do  !  "  The  young  girl  turned  her  shining  face  upon 
him.  He  felt  to  his  inmost  soul  at  that  moment  that  she 


276  CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 

scorned  him  for  the  question.  She  had  no  more  doubt  of 
what  she  should  do  than  a  star  has  of  its  orbit.  The  child 
of  charity,  moved  by  instincts  so  lofty  and  so  fine  that 
the  high-bred  gentleman  felt  himself  plebeian  beside  her. 
"  Do  ?  I  only  called  you  here  to  ask  if  I  might  tell  Dan. 
You  are  his  physician.  I  did  not  dare  to  judge.  And  then 
—  I  thought  you  would  go  and  tell  mamma.  Mamma  tried 
once  to  find  out  about  the  boys,  but  we  lost  the  track  of 
them.  Tell  mamma  I  shall  stay  with  Dan,  and  —  oh, 
may  I  tell  him  ?  Will  it  do,  Doctor,  to  tell  my  brother 
that  I  love  him,  before  he  dies  ?  " 

"  Tell  Dan,"  said  the  physician  huskily  ;  "  yes,  tell  him. 
A  man  would  die  a  few  hours  sooner  to  be  in  Dan's  place." 

She  turned  ;  she  swept ;  she  fled  from  him.  Mute  shy 
ness  would  have  fled  like  that ;  but  so  would  merciless 
scorn.  The  breadth  of  the  dusty  little  garden  widened  be 
tween  them ;  it  seemed  to  the  young  man  to  stretch  out  im 
measurable,  black ;  and  the  narrow  space  between  himself 
and  the  Negro  huts  to  reel  and  yawn  like  a  gulf. 

In  the  hut  door  she  paused ;  she  did  not  face  him,  but 
she  paused.  The  bud  which  he  had  given  her  had  opened 
in  her  hand.  She  lifted  it  and  looked  deep  into  it.  She 
held  it  above  her  head  like  a  lamp.  One  can  look  forever' 
into  the  heart  of  a  rose  of  the  cloth  of  gold.  It  is  deep  as 
the  heart  of  a  tender  woman  —  and  as  dazzling. 

Calla  Hepburn  for  a  swift  instant  peered  into  the  soul  of 
the  royal  rose — petal  past  petal,  down  to  the  blazing  calyx. 
The  flower  shed  a  pale  lambent  color  upon  her  face,  she 
held  it  so  near. 

She  held  it  so  near,  that  he  hardly  knew  she  had  pressed 
her  lips  to  it,  till  the  sudden,  shy,  maidenly  kiss  was  given. 
But  it  was  given.  She  had  kissed  it.  Then,  did  she  repent 
the  kiss  ?  Or  did  she  seal  it  ?  Would  she  waste  it  on 
the  rising  wind  ?  or  would  she  that  the  Florida  sun  should 
garner  and  guard  it  for  her  ?  Who  could  say  ?  She  turned ; 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD.  277 

she  tossed  the  rose  with  a  magnificent  movement  towards 
the  Christmas  sky.  It  flew  like  an  oriole,  and  fell  like  a 
sunbeam.  The  young  man  left  alone  in  the  dingy  garden- 
plot  caught  it,  kneeling  in  the  dust.  It  quivered  under  his 
touch,  like  a  thing  of  life.  There  was  a  soul  in  the  cloth 
of  gold  roses  ;  that,  he  had  always  known.  He  had  been 
used  to  call  it  a  bird's,  a  butterfly's,  a  sun's.  Now  he  knew. 
It  was  a  woman's.  He  held  it  for  a  moment  against  his 
heart,  still  kneeling,  with  uncovered  head,  before  he  stirred. 

The  indigo  Madonna  was  radiant  when  he  came  into  the 
stifling  hut.  Beneath  her  happy  eyes  the  blue-robed  girl* 
had  crept  upon  the  wretched  bed,  beside  the  wasting  lad, 
"  to  help  him  die,"  she  said.  She  had  told  him,  that  was 
clear.  She  had  told  him  quietly,  with  such  sweet,  serene, 
simple  nature,  as  the  roses  had,  when  they  told  the  sun 
they  grew.  Dan  had  accepted  it  as  quietly.  The  poor 
boy's  head  lay  upon  her  arm.  Her  little  blue  veil  was  still 
in  his  hand  ;  the  withered  rose-leaf  had  dropped  from  it 
upon  the  floor.  The  Florida  roses  had  faded  for  poor 
Dan. 

"  We  did  n't  think,"  said  Dan,  "we  did  n't  think  we  'd 
find  own  folks  in  Florida,  did  we,  Jim  ?  " 

He  wandered  a  little,  as  the  Christmas  eve  drew  solemnly 
on.  He  talked  of  Jobbs's  boy,  and  Mrs.  Green.  He  talked 
of  the  hen  that  came  to  get  the  crackers  for  her  dinner. 
He  longed  for  the  little  girl  that  made  the  tissue-paper 
roses.  He  asked  if  the  boss  had  given  him  a  notice.  He 
called  the  cat  that  was  purring  in  the  Boston  boarding- 
house,  thirteen  hundred  miles  away,  and  seemed  to  pat  an 
unseen  dog  upon  the  head.  That  dog,  he  said,  was  always 
glad  to  see  him ;  he  had  n't  seen  a  decent  dog  in  Florida. 
He  did  n't  know  it  was  so  cold  in  Florida.  How  much 
farther  was  it  to  St.  Augustine  ?  He  would  n't  have 
thought  eighteen  miles  would  last  so  long.  Jim  !  Jim  !  JIM  ! 
That  moss  was  round  his  neck :  it  twisted  tight  and  choked 


278  CLOTH   OF  GOLD. 

him.  If  he  had  a  sister,  she  would  take  it  off —  yes ;  there  ! 
Oh,  yes.  He  opened  the  book  and  found  her.  They  keep 
sisters  in  their  Bibles  down  in  Florida.  That 's  one  good 
thing  he  'd  found  about  the  place.  But  don't  tell  Jim. 
Poor  Jim  !  Don't  tell  Jim  it  was  a  mistake  to  come  to 
Florida.  Jim  would  have  to  work  his  way  back  to  Boston 
with  the  chromios.  But  then,  he  'd  found  his  folks.  Per 
haps  they  'd  buy  the  chromios  to  help.  He  'd  find  her  in 
the  Bible.  She  would  look  after  him,  till  he  got  to  Mrs. 
Green's. 

He  liked  the  music.  How  much  folks  sang  in  Florida  ! 
That  new  lodger  in  the  attic  rear  was  fond  of  music.  He 
played  the  jewsharp  on  a  rainy  day. 

Christmas  music  ?  Christmas  ?  That  was  somebody's 
birthday  —  Christmas.  He  feebly  put  his  wasted  hand 
against  his  sister's  cheek  and  asked  her :  was  it  hers  ? 

"  Now  ....  Jesus  was  born  in  Bethlehem  of  Judea." 
Too  solemn  for  a  sob,  her  voice  broke  against  the  distant 
Christmas  chant,  and  reverent,  ringing,  penetrated  the  mis 
erable  room. 

"  And  lo,  the  angel  of  the  Lord  came  ....  and  the  glory 
of  the  Lord  shone."  .... 

The  angel  had  come,  in  truth ;  the  glory  was  shining  as 
she  spoke.  "  Why  Dan  !  "  said  the  Christian  woman  sim 
ply,  "  you  're  going  to  spend  the  Lord's  birthday  with 
Him !  " 

But  Jim  suddenly  lifted  his  gray  face  from  his  hands. 

"  Dan  !  "  he  cried,  "  Dan,  old  boy,  you  ain't  afraid,  be 
you  ?  " 

Dan  stretched  out  both  his  arms  :  "  I  ain't  afraid,  Jim,  to 
go  anywhere  with  you.  But  don't  you  think  —  we  Ve  been 
in  Florida  —  long  enough  ?  Take  me  back  —  to  Boston." 

All  the  world  —  that  is  to  say,  all  St.  Augustine  —  knew 
by  the  setting  of  the  Christmas  sun  why  Miss  Hepburn  had 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD.  279 

no  Christmas  party.  All  the  world  knew,  too,  that  by  the 
setting  of  that  solemn  sun  a  pathetic  dead  face  rested  on 
Miss  Hepburn's  own  delicate  pillow  in  the  heart  of  her 
rose-red  room.  It  was  the  little  last  thing  left  to  do  for 
him,  and  she  thought  it  would  seem  to  him  like  "  having 
folks  in  Florida."  The  chromo  peddler  sat  by  ;  he  held 
the  lad's  unresponsive  hand;  it  was  hard  to  say  what  Jim 
thought  about  the  rose-room,  or  if  he  thought  at  all.  He 
did  not  talk.  A  new  sister  —  like  an  angel  —  in  a  wonder 
ful  room,  was  a  mystery  yet,  deep  and  dim  like  life  or 
death.  But  Dan  he  knew  all  about.  And  Dan  was  gone. 
He  had  brought  Dan  to  Florida.  And  Dan  had  asked  him 
to  take  him  back  to  Boston.  One  does  not  talk  about  such 
things.  So  he  sat  and  held  the  boy's  hand.  Dan  had  lifted 
up  his  hands  to  him  the  very  last,  last  thing. 

"  I  '11  set  by  him,  if  you  please,"  said  Jim. 

And  so  he  did,  till  Dan  was  borne  away  to  the  little  old 
churchyard  without  the  City  Gates,  where  the  peaceful 
graves  are  marked  with  crosses  of  Florida  shells.  The  rose 
garden  was  shorn  of  every  white  bud  it  bore,  to  carry  too. 
But  in  the  lad's  hand,  hidden  half  from  sight,  there  was  one 
rose  of  the  cloth  of  gold.  The  other  flowers  were  so  daz 
zling  white,  that  this  looked  like  sunshine  upon  snow :  or 
like  a  woman's  kiss  on  marble. 

"  Considered  as  a  funeral,"  sighed  Mrs.  Hepburn  one  day 
when  the  roses  had  had  time  to  wither  on  the  grave,  "  purely 
as  a  funeral,  I  called  it  a  very  melancholy  thing.  But  when 
you  come  to  view  a  chromo  peddler  in  the  light  of  a  brother- 
in-law,  I  will  say  I  regard  Dr.  Frankrow  as  the  only  man  I 
know  who  is  half  worthy  of  her,  though  I  don't  doubt  he  's 
got  more  than  he  deserves  at  that.  Regarded  as  a  man, 
simply  as  a  man,  a  lover  always  does,  Call  him  a  photog 
rapher  —  substitute  a  camera  for  a  chromo  —  and  in  proc 
ess  of  time,  can  you  tell  me  where  will  be  the  odds  ?  Mrs. 


280  CLOTH  OF   GOLD. 

Cameron  herself  is  a  photographer,  and  Tennyson  sits  to 
her,  and  that  in  England.  An  American,  regarded  merely 
as  an  American  "  — 

"  Mamma  dear  ?  Suppose  you  regard  me  as  a  daughter 
for  a  minute  —  merely  as  a  daughter,  and  tell  me —  If  you 
were  going  to  be  married  again,  mamma  ?  "  — 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  Calla !  Mr.  Hepburn  was  a  good  man, 
my  dear,  an  excellent  man.  But  marrying,  like  dying, 
should  never  be  expected  of  one  but  once.  I  claim  you  've 
done  your  duty  —  in  either  case  —  by  God  and  man  if  the 
thing  is  once  thoroughly  attended  to.  I  prefer  not,  if  you 
please,  my  dear  ! " 

"  But  mamma,  if  you  must,  you  know  —  if  there  were  n't 
any  way  out  of  it  that  you  could  see  —  and  you  'd  put  it 
off,  and  put  it  off,  and  all,  and  it  had  got  to  be  done  some 
time,  what  should  you  think  of  being  married  when  the  new 
spring  comes  on  to  the  everlasting  summer,  in  —  Florida, 
you  know  ?  " 

"  Regarded  as  a  duty,"  said  Mrs.  Hepburn,  sadly,  "  en 
tirely  in  the  light  of  a  duty,  I  would  rather  be  married  in 
Florida  than  in  Paradise." 


SAINT   CALIGULA. 


THE  first  time  that  I  saw  Caligula,  I  remember,  my  cigars 
had  given  out. 

I  was,  it  is  needless  to  add,  a  smoker ;  Caligula  was  a 
member  of  a  Baptist  church.  I  was  in  the  combative  phase 
of  experience  ;  Caligula  was  in  the  acquiescent.  I  was,  per 
haps  I  may  venture  to  say,  of  a  speculative  nature ;  Calig 
ula  of  an  incurious  one.  I  was  twenty-six ;  Caligula  was 
sixty-two.  I  was  reading  "  Hopkins  on  Original  Sin ; " 
Caligula  was  blacking  my  boots.  I  was  a  junior  in  the 
Theological  School  of  Harmouth  University  ;  Caligula  was 
the  divinity  sweep.  I  was  white  ;  Caligula  was  black. 

To  say  that  Caligula  and  I  had  never  met  before  would 
be  inaccurate.  I  believe  I  had  been  in  Harmouth  ten  days. 
Ten  times,  therefore,  I  must  infer  that  Caligula  had  been  a 
visitor  in  No.  2,  West  Depravity  Hall.  Ten  times  he  must 
have  stepped  in  slippered  sanctity  of  foot  across  my  smoke- 
beclouded  threshold.  Ten  times  he  must  have  dusted  those 
lyrics  of  Heine  into  the  waste-basket,  and  put  the  Eng 
lish  Bible  conspicuously  on  top  of  the  meerschaum.  Ten 
times  he  must  have  essayed  to  produce  order  in  that  awful 
bedroom,  out  of  which  I  got  with  the  utmost  possible  speed 
every  morning,  thinking  it  the  discreeter  part  of  valor  not 
to  look  behind.  Ten  times  —  yes,  it  must  be  he  who  had 
ten  times  washed  the  soap-dish  and  forgotten  to  dry  it ;  ten 
times  made  unpardonable  dust  with  that  particular  kind  of 
a  broom,  patented  for  University  purposes,  which  can't  go 


282  SAINT  CALIGULA. 

into  corners,  but  leaves  a  circular  mark  to  show  how  clean 
the  middle  of  the  room  is.  He  it  was,  then,  who  had  ten 
times  blacked  my  ungrateful  boots ;  but  until  this  day  I 
mention,  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  had  ever  bestowed 
upon  Caligula  any  such  share  of  my  valuable  mental  proc 
esses  as  could  be  philosophically  called  attention. 

That  day  —  it  was  Friday,  and  rained  —  I  put  my  amber 
mounted  pipe  upon  the  askew  little  thin  red  cloth  of  the 
unsteady  library  table  (one  of  the  fellows  had  whittled  a 
leg  short),  and,  without  raising  my  eyes  from  "  Hopkins," 
said  leisurely : 

"  Oh !  Here,  if  you  please.  I  want  an  errand  done 
downtown." 

"  Yes,  Mist'  Hub." 

"  My  name  is  Hubbard,"  I  said,  putting  down  the  book. 
"  I  wonder,  by  the  way,  what  yours  is." 

"  I  did  n't  supposed  you  'd  done  forgot,  Mist'  Hub,"  said 
the  negro,  gently. 

I  closed  the  book  and  regarded  him. 

"  Why,  Caligula !     Is  this  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mist'  Hub." 

"  You  were  round  senior  year,  in  college,  a  week  or  so. 
Somewhere  the  end  of  the  term,  was  n't  it  ?  " 

"  I  had  you  three  month,  Mist'  Hub,"  said  Caligula, 
slowly.  "  I  tought  you  'd  done  remembered.  You  was  very 
good  to  me.  I  had  you  ole  weskits,  Mist'  Hub ;  an'  de 
neckties  you  trew  in.  I  did  n't  supposed  you  'd  done  for 
got,  sar." 

I  have  said  that  this  was  the  first  time  I  saw  Caligula. 
The  visual  power  of  a  student  in  Harmoutli  College  (not 
too  much  restricted  in  income,  let  us  say,  and  not  of  an  un 
popular  temperament)  during  the  last  three  months  of  senior 
year  is  a  more  or  less  limited  faculty.  Could  it  be  expected 
to  bring  to  a  focus  distinctly  upon  a  negro  sweep  of  tempo 
rary  history  and  unobtrusive  habits  ? 


SAINT  CALIGULA.  283 

My'  "  Original  Sin  "  dropped  with  a  resounding  thwack 
upon  the  floor.  Caligula  picked  it  up.  He  stood  bowing 
and  cringing.  I  looked  at  him  silently.  A  little  man,  gray, 
spare,  bent,  bald,  black  as  the  French  boots  which  stood 
shining  upon  the  pine  shelf  somebody  (was  it  he,  perhaps  ?) 
had  obligingly  put  up  for  them  behind  the  bedroom  door. 
A  little,  obsequious,  uninteresting  man,  of  an  enslaved  nat 
ure,  I  thought,  flattering  myself  upon  the  judicial  nicety  of 
my  perceptions  ;  a  creature  without  even  the  crude  con 
ditions  of  heroism,  of  romance,  of  poetry,  wThich  now  and 
then  attach  to  select  specimens  of  his  rudimentary  race. 
Gentle,  perhaps,  with  the  grotesque  sarcasm  of  that  name 
of  his  to  overset  all  possible  gravity  in  one's  appreciation 
of  the  fact ;  gentle,  silent,  and  commonplace.  Oh !  yes,  and 
clean.  Caligula  was  tolerably  clean,  and  his  forehead  was 
heavily  lined.  He  wore  small  round  earrings,  too.  Next 
time  I  should  know  Caligula.  He  "  would  n't  supposed  I 
clone  forgot"  again.  My  cheeks  burned  at  the  gentle 
manly  rebuke. 

"  I  stand  corrected,  Caligula,"  I  said.  "  You  have  better 
manners  than  I.  Come  and  shake  hands.  But  I  don't  know 
why  you  should  remember  me  out  of;  so  many  fellows." 

"  It  was  the  weskits  partly,  Mist'  Hub,"  said  Caligula, 
thoughtfully.  "  But,  ye  see,  some  de  young  men  dey  yank 
a  man's' earrings  —  an'  old  man's  earrings,"  added  Caligula, 
with  dignity  —  "  dat  a  doctor  said  would  cure  me  of  weak 
eyes,  sar.  You  neber  tetched  'em,  Mist'  Hub." 

"  Glad  if  I  did  n't,  Caligula  !  "  said  I,  hastily  thinking 
what  a  narrow  escape  it  was,  if  I  had  n't.  "  But  you 
need  n't  have  been  at  any  trouble  to  remember  the  waist 
coats.  And  now  /remember  that  you  used  to  get  tobacco 
for  me  before.  I  want  some  cigars  from  Dobbins's." 

"  Yes,  sar.  I  know.  I  remember  de  sort  I  done  used  to 
got  for  you  at  Dobbins's.  I  '11  go  at  once,  sar,"  said  Calig 
ula,  gravely.  He  did  not  approve  of  smoking.  He  gave  it 


284  SAINT  CALIGULA. 

up  when  he  was  immersed,  and  he  always  used  to  say  : 
"  I  '11  go  at  once,  sar."  I  began  to  recall  these  incidents  in 
Caligula's  history. 

Caligula  turned,  as  he  went  out  that  day,  standing  in  the 
doorway,  through  which  (I  had  front  corner,  ground  floor) 
I  could  see  the  wet,  graveled'  walk  and  the  rain  beating  the 
infirm  October  grass. 

"  Dar  's  one  reason,  sar,  I  remember  you,  Mist'  Hub. 
When  Mari  come  home  wid  de  wash  "  — 

"Mari?" 

"  Mari  is  my  wife,  sar.  I  tought  you  'd  done  remember 
Mari.  She  washed  for  you  for  two  years,  sar,  Mari." 

"  Caligula,"  said  I,  decidedly,  "  I  have  been  in  Germany 
for  two  years,  studying  biology." 


"  And  when  a  man  studies  biology  in  Germany  for  so 
long  a  time,  Caligula,  it  is  difficult  for  him  to  keep  all  his 
American  acquaintances  as  distinctly  in  mind  as  he  would 
like.  Don't  you  see  ?  Biology  preoccupies  the  memory  to 
a  curious  extent." 

"  Yes,  Mist'  Hub."  A  look  of  awe  stole  over  Caligula's 
humble,  listening  face. 

"But  really  I  think,  Caligula  —  yes,  I  do  think  that  I 
remember  Mari.  Short,  was  n't  she  ?  " 

"  Tall,  sar.  Mari  is  tall  of  her  size,  and  well  •  put  to- 
geder." 

"  Yes,  I  mean  —  rather  tall.  Just  tall  enough  to  be 
good-looking,  and  somewhat  slim  ?  " 

"She's  pretty  stout,"  said  Caligula,  patiently;  "pretty 
stout  of  her  weight,  an'  lighter  complected  than  I,  sar. 
She  's  handsome  to  see,  Mari.  An'  she  had  one  twenty-five 
a  dozen  for  starched,  sar  ;  she  did  up  so  well." 

"  Now  I  am  sure  I  remember  her,"  I  continued,  enthu 
siastically.  "  A  handsome  woman,  stout  and  short  "  — 

"  Tall,  sar." 


SAINT  CALIGULA.  285 

"  Stout  and  tall  I  mean,  who  asked  one  twenty-five  for 
starched  things.  I  remember  perfectly.  An  admirable 
woman.  But  what  was  it  I  did  about  Mari,  Caligula  ?  " 

"  Some  de  young  men  chaff  at  her,"  said  Caligula,  with 
reviving  spirit,  "  seein'  she  was  a  washwoman  and  —  black. 
Dar  was  some  rooms  she  would  n't  go  nigh,  sar.  She  's 
sperited  in  her  feelin's,  Mari.  She  used  to  send  me  to  their 
rooms.  Mist'  Hub,  I  tank  you,  sar.  You  treat  my  wife 
like  a  lady."  Caligula  drew  himself  up.  He  had  put  on 
his  hat ;  but  took  it  off  again,  and  bowed  gravely  to  me, 
standing  in  the  rain,  before  he  shut  the  door. 

Some  of  the  fellows  were  in  when  Caligula  came  back 
with  the  cigars.  I  nodded  at  him  kindly,  with  a  vague 
sense  of  gaining  experience  in  the  pastoral  work.  I  said, 
"  Did  you  get  very  wet,  Caligula  ?  "  with  that  unconscious 
condescension  we  fall  into,  especially  in  the  presence  of  wit 
nesses,  toward  a  person  to  whom  we  have  been  kind.  I 
think  I  had  some  idea  of  asking  further  questions  about 
Mari,  with  the  purpose  of  drawing  him  out,  for  the  enter 
tainment  of  my  visitors.  But  the  sweep  checked  my  ad 
vances  with  an  indefinable  reticence  and  dignity  of  manner. 
I  let  him  go  in  silence.  It  suddenly  seemed  to  me  that  he 
was  rather  an  old  man  to  be  going  out  in  the  rain  to  get 
cigars  for  us. 

We  were  preparing  for  a  debate  in  our  Seminary  Literary 
Society  that  week  —  the  fellows  and  I.  I  remember  that  I 
had  the  affirmative  on  the  question,  "  Is  it  desirable  to  have 
a  Celibate  Clergy?" 

"  I  hope  your  wife  is  well,"  I  said  one  morning  to  Calig 
ula.  I  spoke  with  something  of  a  society  air  in  my  anxiety, 
newly  acquired,  to  avoid  the  twang  of  patronage.  Indeed, 
I  think  I  put  the  question  rather  gayly,  like  a  man  exchang 
ing  the  compliments  of  a  New  Year's  call. 

Caligula  was  cleaning  my  coat.  He  had  the  ammonia 
bottle,  and  with  assiduous,  cramped  finger  was  rubbing  the 


286  SAINT  CALIGULA. 

spot  spattered  by  the  turtle  soup  at  dinner.  He  did  not 
immediately  answer  me.  When  he  did,  he  said :  — 

"  Powerful  strong  ammony,  sar,  dis  yere."  He  lifted  his 
eyes  —  the  melancholy  eyes  of  his  race.  I  found  myself 
unexpectedly  face  to  face  with  an  old  man's  difficult  and 
impressive  tears. 

"  She  's  well,  sar ;  yes,  Mari  is  well,  tank  God.  She  's 
peart  an'  well.  An'  so  's  de  chillen.  They  're  powerful 
peart  chillen,  sar." 

"  I  have  some  washing,  if  she  wants  it,"  I  said,  with  the 
irrelevance  of  perplexity. 

"  Tank  you,  sar.     She  don't  take  in  now." 

"  Why,  what 's  the  matter  ?  " 

It  takes  the  bluntness  and  the  boldness  of  youth  (and  I 
had  both)  to  ask  such  questions.  Caligula  put  down  the 
ammonia  bottle  and  slowly  folded  the  coat  before  he  said :  — 

"  Mist'  Plub,  sar,  Mari 's  out  with  me." 

"  Out  with  you,  Caligula  ?  " 

"  She  's  been  out  with  me,  sar,  dis  two  years.  She  's 
powerful  sperited  woman,  Mari.  Mist'  Hub,  sar,  my  wife 
hain't  spoke  to  me  for  two  whole  years." 

He  bowed  as  he  said  this,  crouching  a  little.  It  is  not 
easy  to  put  into  words  the  effect  the  motion  had  upon  me ; 
as  if  the  creature  must  apologize  to  another  for  his  very 
sorrows.  I  was  young  and  a  theological  student.  I  knew 
little  about  sorrow.  But  I  felt  to  the  bottom  of  my  un 
taught,  untried  heart  that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a  pro 
found  affliction.  Biology  offered  no  assistance  for  such 
emergencies.  "  Original  Sin  "  gave  me  no  suggestion.  I 
ran  over  the  main  points  in  my  paper  on  the  "  Celibate 
Clergy,"  without  avail.  In  simple  desperation,  I  said  :  — 

"  Caligula,  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"  Tank  you,  sar,"  said  Caligula.  He  was  at  work  once 
more  on  the  turtle  spot,  rubbing  meekly,  with  bent,  bald 
head.  As  he  rubbed  his  earrings  shook. 


SAINT   CALIGULA.  287 

"  I  did  not  know  you  had  domestic  troubles.  I  did  not 
mean  to  intrude  upon  them  by  —  by  careless  questions." 

"  No,  sar.     Tank  you,  sar." 

There  was  a  silence. 

"  You  'd  been  kind  to  her,  of  course,  Caligula  ?  "  I  ven 
tured,  breaking  it  at  last. 

"  I  tried  to  be,  Mist'  Hub,"  said  Caligula,  gently. 
"  She  's  a  powerful  sperited  woman,  Mari,"  he  added, 
slowly.  "  She  can't  stand  much.  We  disagreed,  sar,  'bout 
de  doctrine  of  Immersion.  Mari  took  to  the  'Piscopals,  to 
St.  John's.  A  powerful  aristocratical  church,  St.  John's, 
Mist'  Hub ;  s'ported  mainly  by  head  waiters  an'  barbers, 
sar.  Mari  an'  me,  we  disagreed  on  Immersion  an'  'Postol- 
ical  Succession.  I  tried  to  be  kind  to  her ;  but  she  hain't 
spoke  to  me  for  two  years.  I  don't  wish  to  find  no  fault 
with  Mari ;  but  it 's  hard,  someways,  to  git  'long,  sar.  She 
won't  take  in  nor  go  out,  sar,  to  earn  nothing.  Nor  yet 
she  won't  cook,  sar,  an'  tend  up  at  home.  She  hain't  lifted 
a  finger  to  do  for  me  for  nigh  two  years,  sar.  She  does  for 
de  chillen,  sar ;  but  she  neber  does  for  me." 

"  But  do  you  support,  do  you  take  care  of  her,  under  the 
circumstances,  Caligula  ?  " 

u  Sartainly,  sar.  She  has  a  claim  upon  me  for  s'port. 
She  's  my  wife.  She  has  de  legal  claim.  I  s'ports  'em  all, 
sar,  de  same  as  if  Immersion  had  n't  come  between  us.  It 
comes  a  mite  hard ;  but  I  don't  wish  to  find  no  fault  with 
Mari." 

"  You  're  too  good  to  her !  "  I  said,  hotly. 

Caligula  lifted  his  head.  "  She  is  my  wife,  sar,"  he  an 
swered,  simply. 

"  You  're  too  good  to  her,  all  the  same,  Caligula." 

"  So  she  says,  Mist'  Hub.  It 's  that  she  's  most  high 
sperited  about.  She  says  it  makes  her  heaps  ob  trubble  in 
the  way  of  gitten'  the  divose." 

"  Divorce  !     Does  she  want  a  divorce  ?  " 


288  SAINT   CALIGULA. 

"  Yes,  Mist'  Hub,  sar.  She  's  been  tryin'  for  de  divose 
dis  year  while  past.  Mebbe  she  '11  git  it,  sar,  de  lawyer 
done  says.  I  'd  be  sorry,"  said  Caligula,  sighing.  "  But  de 
Lord  understand  de  matter.  He  's  de  best  lawyer  /know, 
sar.  You  see,  Mist'  Hub,  sar,  I  've  sorter  put  de  case  in 
his  ban's.  He  knows  Mari.  He  must  kinder  see  what  a 
powerful  fine  woman  she  is,  settin'  'Postolical  Succession 
out  the  account,  and  them  high  sperits  he  giv'  her.  A 
handsome  woman,  too,"  pursued  the  sweep,  straightening. 
His  eye  flashed  with  marital  pride ;  but  across  his  dark 
and  heavy  jaw  there  passed  the  pinched  look  peculiar  to 
those  species  of  animals  who  suffer  without  outcry. 

I  did  not  understand  the  expression,  being,  as  I  say,  but 
twenty-six.  But  I  understood  that  I  did  not  understand  it, 
and  sat  before  Caligula  awed  and  silent.  Who  was  I,  that 
I  should  comfort,  instruct,  or  edify  my  negro  sweep  ? 
Love  ?  I  had  thought  myself  in  love  once  or  twice,  in 
summer  vacations  ;  when  the  moon  was  on  the  river  ;  when 
the  twilight  touched  the  sea ;  when  the  wind  blew  soft  hair 
against  my  face ;  when  the  scent  of  flowers  was  strong  ; 
when  people  in  parlors  sang  love  songs  without  the  lamps  ; 
when  it  was  not  incumbent  to  reduce  one's  visions  of  do 
mestic  life  upon  a  rural  clerical  income  to  the  coherence  of 
an  immediate  engagement. 

This  black  brute,  it  seemed,  could  love  a  woman,  in  his 
own  way.  Well,  what  a  way  it  was. 

Christianity  ?  I  had  chosen  the  sacred  profession,  whose 
peculiar  precinct  it  is  to  define  for  other  men  their  duty 
to  God  and  man;  to  inspect  their  motives;  to  judge  their 
conduct ;  to  prescribe  their  principles ;  to  be  their  leader 
through  the  subtle  perils  and  delicate  intoxications  of  a 
spiritual  consecration. 

Suppose  I  prated  of  resignation,  of  self-denial,  of  purity, 
of  integrity,  to  this  negro  Baptist,  building  my  fire  there, 
crouched,  patient,  kneeling  on  the  seminary  floor  !  I !  — 


SAINT   CALIGULA.  289 

I  looked  at  the  man  with  a  peculiar  interest,  I  remember, 
as  if  I  had  never  seen  a  Christian  before ;  as  if  I  had  dis 
covered  the  type  of  character.  My  heart  said:  "  Caligula, 
teach  me." 

I  was  still  young  enough  not  to  ask  for  the  other  side 
of  a  story  that  appealed  to  my  sympathies ;  and  it  was  not 
until  I  happened  to  lunch  one  day  with  Mari's  lawyer  —  a 
professor  in  the  Harinouth  Law  School,  I  regret  to  be 
obliged  to  say  — that  it  occurred  to  me  what  a  shock  it 
would  be  to  discover  in  my  St.  Caligula  some  ordinary  do 
mestic  tyrant,  of  uncertain  habits,  temper,  or  purse-strings, 
from  whom  the  protective  marriage  laws  of  the  parental 
state  would  be  richly  justified  in  freeing  that  handsome, 
high-spirited,  but  long-suffering  female,  Mari. 

I  measured  my  escape  by  my  sensations  when  Burrage 
said,  carelessly :  — 

"  You  have  a  phenomenon  up  at  Depravity  Hall,  in  the 
shape  of  your  sweep ;  one  of  the  best  husbands  I  ever  knew 
in  my  life.  Eh  ?  Oh  !  yes,  the  divorce.  I  think  I  shall 
be  able  to  get  the  woman  the  divorce  from  him.  Should 
have  got  it  last  year  if  he  'd  neglected  her  or  showed  tem 
per.  She  '11  make  it  incompatibility,  I  think  —  under  the 
present  laws.  Curious  case.  The  worst  she  acts  the  better 
he  treats  her.  He  's  hard  pushed,  poor  chap.  Very  curious 
case.  Why,  confound  it !  the  fellow  seems  to  love  the 
woman  !  Says  he  promised  to,  when  they  got  married  !  " 

Having  neither  experience  nor  wisdom  with  which  to 
help  Caligula,  I  offered  him  the  only  trifles  at  my  com 
mand  —  money  and  reverence.  He  accepted  both,  without 
remarks.  He  seemed  to  be  suffering  from  an  attack  of 
dumb  gratitude.  But  next  week  he  appeared  with  a  new 
Droom.  I  am  not  versed  in  the  natural  history  of  brooms ; 
:>ut  I  suppose  this  to  have  been  rectangular  in  shape,  for  the 
corners  of  my  bedroom  were  clean  from  that  day  forever- 
more. 

19 


290  SAINT   CALIGULA. 

Being  very  much  occupied  about  this  time  with  my  de 
bate  on  the  Celibate  Clergy,  with  the  lectures  on  Predesti 
nation,  some  Hebrew  roots  on  which  I  had  "got  sat  down" 
in  the  class-room,  and  a  few  other  matters  of  importance, 
I  think,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recall,  that  I  had  little  or  no 
conversation  with  Caligula  for  several  weeks. 

One  day  he  hung  about,  after  his  work  was  done,  with 
that  pitiable  bow.  I  was  reading  Baur  on  the  "  Fourth 
Gospel,"  I  remember.  Caligula  seemed  at  U  large  remove 
from  the  argument.  I  was  tense  with  zeal  for  the  honor  of 
the  tender  evangel,  and  the  affairs  of  this  colored  brother 
seemed  unimportant  beside  the  literary  history  of  the  dis 
ciple  whom  Jesus  loved. 

Caligula  said  :  "  Busy,  Mist'  Hub  ?  " 

"Why, -yes,  Caligula;  rather,  just  now.  Anything 
wanted  ?  " 

"No,  sar;  tank  you,  sar." 

He  moved  away.  His  hands  came  together  at  the  lean 
finger-tips  with  a  submissive  motion. 

"  Caligula  !     Come  back  !  " 

"  Yes,  sar  ;  tank  you,  sar." 

"  You  had  something  to  say  to  me.  What  troubles  you  ? 
What  has  Mari  done  now  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  sar,  of  no  great  consequence  ;  but  the  di- 
vose." 

"  Oh !     The  divorce." 

"  She  done  got  the  divose,  sar  —  she  an'  de  chillen.  I 
did  n't  s'posed  she  'd  done  get  a  divose  for  de  chillen. 
She  's  took  'em  with  her,  sar.  She 's  gone  to  Teniiysee, 
Mari  has.  Dey  's  all  gone,  sar.  I  'm  lef '  to  myself,  sar  ; 
tank  you,  sar.  I  thought  I  'd  give  you  information  of  the 

fac'.  That 's  all Mist'  Hub,  the  pail  needs  fillin' 

fresh.  I  call  the  water  turned  a  mite  sour.  I  will  fill  it. 
1  '11  go  at  once,  sar." 

I  was  too  much  of  a  novice  in  human  experience  to  be 


SAINT   CALIGULA.  291 

equable  in  my  treatment  of  human  confidence,  and  remem 
ber  to  have  suffered  many  keen  alternations  of  feeling  about 
Caligula ;  but  from  this  time  I  think  he  advanced  upon  my 
interest  with  sad  and  steady  inroads.  I  did  not  call  in  the 
fellows  to  see  him  now.  I  could  not,  somehow.  Caligula 
did  not  converse  much  with  the  rest ;  or,  if  he  did,  it  was 
on  a  superficial  plane,  carefully  confined  to  the  area  of 
blacking,  brooms,  and  coal,  of  soap  or  towels,  of  the  weather 
or  the  wages.  There  was  a  senior  opposite  —  the  ablest 
man  in  the  seminary,  and  reported  to  be  of  a  singularly 
spiritual  nature,  interested  in  the  higher  life.  But  Caligula 
had  never  mentioned  Mari  to  this  good  man.  As  I  thought 
more  about  it,  I  'became  at  first  awed,  then  humbled,  by 
the  confidence  of  the  sweep. 

I  remember  saying,  one  day  :  — 

"  Caligula,  I  'm  a  young  fellow,  and  can't  understand 
your  troubles,  I  know.  But  I  'd  like  to  have  you  know 
I  'm  downright  sorry  for  them  and  for  you  !  I  hope  Mari 
is  ashamed  of  herself  before  now  !  " 

Caligula  lifted  his  melancholy  eyes  to  answer  me :  but 
spoke  with  difficulty,  bringing  out  his  patient  "  Tank  you, 
sar,"  without  his  usual  distinctness. 

"  I  'd  take  it  kindly,  Mist'  Hub,"  he  added,  "  sein'  you  've 
been  so  good,  sar,  if  you  'd  speak  regardfully  of  my  wife. 
Don't  s'pose  she  done  understood  how  lonesome  it  would 
make  it,  gettin'  de  divose  for  de  chillen  too.  She  was  sech 
a  handsome  woman,"  sighing,  "  and  so  high  sperited.  I 
don't  sweep  up  no  grudgin'  feelin's  against  my  wife." 

It  was  the  second  term  of  middle  year.  The  exam 
inations  on  Federal  Headship  in  Adam  were  past.  The 
snow  had  melted  from ,  the  University  Green ;  the  ice  was 
breaking  on  the  Harmouth  River ;  great  freshets  were 
gathering  their  forces.  Our  seminary  windows  stood  open. 
Caligula's  coal  fires  burned  low.  The  Professor  had  got 


292  SAINT   CALIGULA. 

along  as  far  as  Justification  by  Faith.  Sparrows  twittered 
in  the  bare  seminary  elms.  Spring  was  coming. 

So,  it  seemed,  was  Caligula,  with  a  definite  haste  in  his 
shuffling  step.  I  heard  it  far  down  the  stairs  that  day,  and 
listened  idly  over  the  notes  on  Eternal  Punishment  and  the 
Natural  Man. 

The  year  had  come  and  gone,  leaving  Caligula  as  it 
found  him  —  a  patient,  melancholy  man,  with  slavish  in 
born  manners  and  grand  acquired  Christian  eyes.  Caligula 
had  ceased  to  talk  of  his  domestic  afflictions.  He  honored 
me  by  a  silent  assumption  of  my  sympathy. 

This  day  I  have  in  mind,  he  presented  a  remarkable, 
though  perfectly  indefinable  appearance.  We  call  it  trans 
figuration  in  white  people.  He  came  directly  to  my  side, 
and  said  :  — 

"  Mist'  Hub,  sar,  T  done  got  a  letter  from  her.  I  got  a 
letter  from  my  wife." 

"  She  is  not  your  wife  !  "  I  exclaimed  thoughtlessly.  I 
was  angry  for  Caligula.  I  do  not  know  but  I  was  angry 
with  him.  I  should  have  relished  a  touch  of  masculine 
temper  in  this  long-suffering  and  long-loving  creature.  Ca 
ligula  waved  away  my  words  with  a  gesture  of  much  dig 
nity. 

"  She  writes  to  say,  sar  "  — 

"  What  business  has  she  to  write  to  you  at  all  ?  " 

"  It  is  in  reply,"  said  Caligula,  with  a  good  deal  of  man 
ner.  "  I  wrote  de  fust  letter.  Dis  is  in  reply." 

"  Oh  !  you  've  been  writing  to  her,  have  you  ?  " 

It  is  as  unsafe,  we  find,  for  a  superior  nature  to  assume 
that  it  has  absorbed  the  confidence  of  the  inferior  as  it  would 
be  to  establish  an  elective  affinity  between  the  "  walrus  and 
the  carpenter"  (with  whose  attempt  to  walk  "  hand  in  hand" 
a  contemporary  humorist  has  made  us  all  familiar). 

What  else  had  Caligula  done,  pray,  which  he  had  not 
condescended  to  communicate  to  me  ? 


SAINT   CALIGULA.  293 

"  I  wrote  to  her,"  pursued  Caligula,  with  increasing  in 
dependence,  in  a  tone  which,  however,  lost  none  of  its  gentle 
and  appealing  character.  "  I  wrote  that  I  had  'bout  made 
up  my,mine,  sar,  to  go  to  housekeepin'  again.  I  'd  live  alone 
too  long.  I  should  marry  somebody,  sar,  as  de  law  allow, 
an'  go  to  keepin'  house  dis  yere  season.  So  I  told  her  I  'd 
give  her  de  fust  chance." 

"Hem!     You  did,  did  you?" 

u  Yes,  sar.  I  did  n't  cringe  to  her,  sar.  She 's  high- 
sperited  herself.  I  jest  told  her,  in  a  high-sperited  way, 
how  it  was.  She  could  do  jest  as  she  done  pleased.  But  I 
told  her  I  'd  give  her  de  fust  chance." 

"  And  what  —  under  these  unusual  circumstances  —  did 
the  lady  say  ?  " 

"  She  say  she  'd  come,  and  be  tankful,  sar.  But  I  must 
send  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  to  get  her  and  de  chillen 
on  from  Nashville." 

"  It  is  a  large  sum,  Caligula." 

"  A  large  sum,  sar,"  repeated  Caligula,  cheerfully.  "  But 
she  says  she  's  done  glad  to  get  home  again  and  behave  like 
a  lady,  sar.  She  says  she  's  had  a  very  dull  time  in  Nash 
ville,  sar."  "  I  expect  she  would,"  added  Caligula,  modestly. 

Justification  by  Faith  was  struggling  with  the  natural 
man  in  this  model  husband  at  that  moment.  Anybody  but 
St.  Caligula  would  have  said  :  "  I  told  her  so  !  " 

"  And  how,"  I  asked,  submissively,  "  do  you  expect  to 
raise  one  hundred  arid  fifty  dollars,  Caligula  ?  " 

"  The  Lord  will  provide !  "  said  Caligula,  religiously. 
"  I  've  laid  up  a  trifle  —  jest  a  trifle,  sar  —  sence  she  got  de 
divose.  I  laid  up  against  things  took  a  turn  in  dis  direction, 
sar.  I  neber  wanted  to  marry  no  other  woman.  Mari  was 
my  wife.  I  expect  she  done  come  back  to  me.  I  ain't 
gwine  to  let  a  matter  like  a  hunderd  and  fifty  dollars  come 
between  me  an'  my  wife,  sar." 

Caligula  stood  confidingly  —  child-like,  serene,  and  sweet. 


294  SAINT   CALIGULA. 

But  out  of  the  dark  mirror  of  his  face,  as  out  of  the  Claude 
Lorraine  illuminated  landscapes,  looked  and  blinded  me. 
The  Negro  sweep  was  a  radiant  creature. 

I  yielded  the  case  without  a  murmur.  We  took  up  a 
subscription  in  Depravity  Hall.  The  theological  professor 
himself  subscribed  five  dollars,  at  the  close  of  his  famous 
lecture  on  Imputed  Sin.  The  exegetical  chair  was  gener 
ous.  The  homiletic  department  kindly  headed  a  paper. 
Several  of  the  fellows  put  down  a  Sunday's  preaching.  One 
of  them  was  supplying  a  mission  pulpit  at  two  dollars  and 
seventy-five  cents  a  Sabbath.  In  three  days  I  had  made  up 
the  amount  necessary  to  reinstate  Caligula  in  the  perils  and 
the  pleasures  of  domestic  life.  He  requested  me  to  write 
the  letter  which  should  explain  to  the  absent  fair  the  pro 
found  mysteries  of  money  orders,  railway  routes,  the  di 
vorce  laws,  and  his  own  unconditional  forgiveness  and  un 
swerving  attachment,  especially  urging  me  to  "  make  it  cl'ar 
'bout  de  money  an'  de  feelin's  "  involved  in  the  complicated 
case.  Humbly  I  did  my  best  in  both  particulars  ;  adding,  I 
must  confess,  one  or  two  pungent  suggestions  in  postscript 
form  and  on  my  personal  responsibility,  which  Caligula  did 
not  see,  but  I  am  glad  to  remember  that  Mari  did. 

I  sent  the  letter.  And  the  freshets  came  ;  and  the  coal- 
fires  died  quite  out ;  and  the  elms  began  to  breathe ;  and 
the  class  got  their  three-months'  license ;  and  the  Greek 
department  had  us  all  to  tea,  six  at  a  time  ;  and  the  spring 
budded  and  burst.  And  one  afternoon  Caligula  walked  in, 
at  an  unwonted  hour,  and  said  :  — 

"  I've  had  a  telegram  from  my  wife.  She  'd  like  to  have 
me  meet  her  an'  de  chillen  at  Forty-second  Street  Station, 
in  New  York,  to-morrow.  I  '11  go  at  once,  sar." 

Two  days  after,  as  I  stood  plaintively  blacking  my  own 
boots  and  thoughtfully  wondering  how  Caligula  managed  to 
get  the  sheet  on  the  bed  so  it  would  turn  over  the  blanket, 
my  sweep  reappeared.  He  had  on  a  new  pair  of  earrings, 


SAINT   CALIGULA.  295 

very  bright.  He  wore  fresh  kid  gloves  that  had  ripped 
across  the  thumb.  He  held  his  gray  head  loftily.  He 
said  :  — 

"  Mist '  Hub,  sar,  we  'd  take  it  very  kind,  me  an'  Mari, 
if  you  'd  step  over  to  de  house  this  evening,  sar,  and  read 
the  service,  sar.  We  're  gwine  to  be  married  again,  Mari 
an'  me.  Dar  's  de  Baptis'  minister  could  do  it.  But  I  told 
Mari  to  have  that  aristocratical  clergyman  to  St.  John's, 
if  she  done  want  him.  But,  Mist'  Hub,  sar,  she  say  she 
take  it  very  kind  if  you  would  condescend  to  come  yourself, 
and  no  sectarian  diffunces  to  be  considered  on  dis  yere 
peaceful  and  glorious  occasion." 


MISS  MILDEED'S  FEIEND. 


THE  nurse  was  gone  at  last. 

Miss  Mildred  sighed  peacefully,  watching  the  door  as  it 
closed  upon  her.  The  door  was  of  black  walnut.  Mrs. 
Hobson  had  the  effect  of  being  finished  in  black  walnut  too. 
She  wore  brown  —  and  then  her  complexion  ! 

Miss  Mildred  herself  had  the  rare  pleasure  (to  an  inva 
lid)  of  having  retained  her  complexion.  She  was  sensitive 
about  this  point  in  other  people.  And  Mrs.  Hobson  moved 
like  a  bureau  without  casters.  Besides,  she  called  her  "  my 
dear."  Mildred  always  sighed  peacefully  when  Mrs.  Hob- 
son  had  rolled  up  the  round  stand,  brought  the  ice-water, 
wrung  out  the  wet  towels,  set  the  milk  behind  the  Cologne 
bottle,  and  the  crackers  on  the  chair,  measured  off  the  Life 
Food,  put  the  chamomilla  within  reach,  and  "  fixed  "  the 
fire,  —  a  terrible  process,  consisting  of  raspings  and  scrap 
ings,  of  puffings  and  pokings  and  gaspings,  on  the  part  of 
Mrs.  Hobson,  every  one  of  'which  Miss  Mildred  firmly  be 
lieved  to  be  an  unnecessary  torture  inflicted  upon  her  nerv 
ous  system,  but  against  which  there  was  no  redress.  Mrs. 
Hobson  was  one  of  those  persons  who  have  theories  about 
managing  a  fire,  and  with  such  people  it  is  no  more  possible 
to  argue  than  with  a  man  in  love.  When  all  this  was  over, 
aud  Mrs.  Hobson  had  vanished  for  the  night,  Miss  Mildred, 
as  I  say,  was  glad. 

She  had  resolutely  refused  to  have  Mrs.  Hobson  in  at 
tendance  upon  her  at  night.  This  pleased  her  mother,  who 


MISS  MILDRED'S  EKIEND.  297 

thereby  received  and  gave  the  impression  that  she  took  care 
of  Mildred  half  the  time.  No  one  ever  alluded  to  the  fact 
that  it  was  because  Mrs.  Suowe  was  systematically  incapa 
ble  of  taking  care  of  her  daughter  at  any  time,  that  there 
was  a  nurse  in  Mildred's  case  at  all. 

Mildred  Snowe  was  what  I  have  heard  called  "  one  of  the 
ethereal  invalids."  Nothing  very  dreadful  or  disagreeable 
was  the  matter  with  this  pale  and  patient  young  woman, 
who  had  not  left  her  beautiful  room  in  the  stately  Snowe 
mansion  for  now  three  long  and  empty  years.  She  did  not 
have  sick-headaches,  a  cancer,  or  a  cough.  She  had  never 
even  gone  into  hysterics.  She  did  not  often  cry.  She  was 
not  expecting  to  die,  and  had  never  once  called  the  family 
together  to  give  orders  about  her  funeral.  She  had  only 
met  with  an  accident  a  good  while  ago,  and  got  a  hurt  upon 
the  spine  between  the  shoulders,  and  so  had  the  backache 
ever  since.  Her  mother  said  Mildred  always  "kept  up;" 
and  what  would  have  become  of  her  if  she  had  n't,  Heaven 
only  knew,  for  she  sometimes  thought  of  the  two  she  needed 
nursing  as  much  as  anybody,  but  she  wouldn't  let  poor 
Mildred  hear  her  say  such  a  thing  for  the  world. 

Oh,  how  many  times  Mildred  had  heard  her  say  it,  talk 
ing  to  callers  down  in  the  front  entry,  as  they  went  away, 
in  that  high-strung  voice  of  hers  that  pierced  her  daughter's 
ears  like  a  fine  poisoned  wire,  and  seemed  to  revolve  upon 
itself  within  the  brain  for  an  hour  after  —  how  many  times  ! 

But  Mildred  only  said,  "  Poor  little  mother !  she  can't 
help  \\QYself"  and  spoke  gently  next  time  she  came  up,  ask 
ing  how  the  pleurisy  was,  or  the  dyspepsia,  or  if  she  slept 
last  night,  or  dwelling  upon  whatever  cheerful  conversa 
tional  material  of  this  sort  happened  to  be  uppermost  at  the 
time  in  Mrs.  Snowe's  interest  and  favor.  The  subject  of 
discussion  on  this  especial  night,  before  Mrs.  Hobson  came 
in,  had  been  diphtheritic  throats,  Mrs.  Snowe  having  heard 
that  the  next  lecturer  in  the  Hamlet's  Citizens'  Lecture 


298  MISS  MILDRED'S  FRIEND. 

Course  had  been  obliged  to  postpone  his  engagement  for 
Friday,  owing  to  this  afflicting  cause.  The  night  before, 
Mrs.  Snowe  was  interested  in  a  theory  of  chloral  poisoning. 
Last  week  —  oh,  yes,  last  week  it  was  amalgamated  fillings. 

It  was  always  something.  Mildred  was  used  to  it.  Per 
haps  it  was  her  fault,  she  sometimes  thought.  It  came  of 
having  an  invalid  in  the  house. 

"  After  this  diphtheria  man,"  observed  Mrs.  Snowe,  when 
Mrs.  Hobson  had  lunged  out  of  the  way,  "  comes  Mr.  Ho 
garth.  I  've  long  wanted  to  see  that  man.  It  is  a  fine 
selection  this  year." 

"  What !  Henry  Hogarth  ?  "  asked  Mildred.    «  The  poet  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it 's  Henry  Hogarth.  I  never  thought  of  him  so 
much  as  a  poet,  though,  my  dear,  as  I  did  as  a  lecturer  on 
Pompey  —  or  was  it  " — 

"  Pompeii  ?  "  suggested  Mildred. 

"  Well,  yes,  Pompeii  and  Herculaneum,  or  the  Schleier- 
macher  investigations,  or  something  of  that  sort.  At  any 
rate,  I  've  always  dreamed  of  him  as  a  lecturer  on  antiq 
uities,  with  an  invalid  wife,"  sighed  Mrs.  Snowe. 

Ah  !  had  he  an  invalid  wife  ? 

Mildred's  eyes  twinkled  merrily.  Nothing  could  have  so 
recommended  a  poet  to  her  mother,  unless,  indeed,  he  could 
have  been  an  invalid  himself. 

"  Why,  yes,  my  dear,  an  extremely  invalid  wife.  So  I  Ve 
always  understood.  He  is  most  devoted  to  her.  He  won't 
stay  at  a  party  —  and  he  is  said  to  be  very  fond  of  society 
—  after  nine  o'clock,  because  she  prefers  to  have  him  help 
her  to  bed  rather  than  the  maid.  And  he  answers  her  bell 
like  a  maid,  jumping  up  every  half  hour.  And  it 's  so  in 
teresting  to  know  that  they  live  in  a  boarding-house,  in 
two  small  rooms,  and  he  does  all  his  writing  with  her  be 
side  him  at  a  little  table,  and  her  callers  coming  in  as  lovely 
as  possible  !  " 

It  was  very  interesting,  surely  —  very  much  so ;  Mildred 
assented,  idly. 


MISS   MILDRED'S   FRIEND.  299 

"  She  has  a  most  remarkable  disease,"  pursued  Mrs. 
Snowe,  with  animation.  "  I  hear  it  is  deterioration  of  — 
something.  There  is  no  other  case  on  record  like  it.  De 
terioration  of  "  — 

11  The  heart?"  suggested  Mildred. 

«  Oh,  no  !  " 

"  Intellect  ?  feelings  ?  will  ?  " 

"  No,  none  of  those,  I  am  sure ;  they  don't  sound  like  it. 
I  think  it  may  have  been  *  deterioration  of  the  arteries.'  At 
any  rate,  it  is  a  most  remarkable  disease.  I  Ve  a  mind  to 
invite  him  to  stay  here  when  he  lectures." 

"Mother!  To  find  out  what  is  the  matter  with  his 
wife  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  Mildred,  not  at  all.  What  an  unpleasant  way 
you  have  of  putting  things  !  But  he  must  stay  somewhere. 
Mrs.  Jessop  will  be  after  him  if  she  gets  over  her  neuralgia. 
I  should  be  ashamed  to  have  him  stay  at  the  Jessops'. 
Their  carpet  is  blue  and  their  curtains  maroon.  She  'd  be 
sure  to  have  his  cold  mutton  overdone,  besides.  The  man 
with  the  spectroscope  stayed  there." 

"  Stereoscope,  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes,  stereoscope,  I  should  say  —  and  had  to  go  up  to 
the  hotel  for  a  lunch.  If  I  don't  have  one  of  my  attacks 
I  will  try  it,  I  believe.  It  would  be  pleasant  for  you,  too, 
Mildred.  The  lectures  run  over  several  weeks.  I  suppose 
he  would  come  and  go.  But  we  need  n't  give  him  the  per 
manent  invitation  till  we  Ve  tried  him  once.  If  you  don't 
need  me  any  longer,  Mildred  dear,  I'll  go  and  write  to 
him,  I  believe,  to-night.  I  suppose  the  committee  have  his 
address.  Comfortable,  Mildred  ?  There  !  I  meant  to  have 
got  out  of  my  silk  before  I  came  into  your  room.  I  must 
remember." 

Mildred  smiled  patiently.  Her  mother  seldom  did  re 
member.  It  could  not  be  helped.  She  pulled  the  blue 
Chinese  crape  coverlet  close  about  her  ears,  but  her  eyes 


300  MISS    MILDRED'S   FBIEND. 

softened  kindly  as  the  stiff  bonnet  silk  rustled  elegantly 
away.  Her  poor  mother  was  such  a  handsome  little  woman, 
when  dressed !  And  the  merino  wrapper  was  not  becom 
ing  to  her. 

The  invalid  turns  with  what  may  be  called  the  invalid's 
consciousness  of  solitude  —  an  acute  and  active  thing,  like 
a  sixth  sense  ;  her  eyes  stir  over  the  grave  blue  room  in 
which  she  lies  imprisoned  ;  the  curtained  recess  where  her 
bed  stands  seems  to  gasp  about  her  for  the  wide  air ;  her 
supersensitive  ear  detects  the  scratch  of  her  mother's  pen 
.through  the  closed  door.  The  wind  rises,  and  this  means 
a  wakeful  night.  She  will  have  time  enough  to  think.  It 
never  seems  to  her  that  she  can  think  with  Mrs.  Hobson  in 
the  room. 

But  what  has  she  to  think  about?  Not  much,  verily. 
Only  the  same  old  story,  told  in  the  same  old  way  —  of  the 
ache  and  anguish  of  the  day ;  the  doctor's  visit ;  the  new 
prescription  ;  the  prospect  for  to-morrow  ;  the  items  in  the 
evening  paper  that  she  read  before  the  blinding  pain  crashed 
down  on  brain  and  eyes ;  the  novel  that  Mrs.  Hobson  read 
to  her  in  the  afternoon,  in  a  very  high  key,  and  with  a 
punctuation  entirely  Mrs.  Hobson's  own,  and  a  pronuncia 
tion  of  which  the  less  one  thinks  the  better ;  of  the  neigh 
bor  who  "  dropped  in "  and  gossiped  at  her,  or  the  other 
neighbor  who  brought  flowers  and  sympathized  with  her ; 
of  the  subscription  that  she  sent  to  the  Reform  Club ;  of  the 
poor  people  whom  she  never  sees,  who  give  their  thanks 
for  the  help  that  costs  her  nothing ;  of  the  changes  in  the 
weather ;  of  the  snapping  of  the  fire ;  of  the  pattern  of 
bare  branches  without  against  the  moon-lit  sky  —  they  have 
a  homeless,  comfortless  look  when  it  is  bright ;  of  a  poem 
that  took  her  fancy  yesterday  ;  of  her  mother,  and  her 
mother's  notions  ;  of  this  lecturer  who  is  coming. 

It  is  a  dreary  place  to  bring  him  to  —  a  man  of  the  world, 
the  wide,  well  world.  Miss  Mildred,  in  her  blue  room  won- 


MISS  MILDRED'S  FKIEND.  301 

ders  what  the  world  is  like  —  to  the  well.  She  has  forgot 
ten.  It  is  so  long  now  that  she  has  lain  here  !  so  long  since 
she  has  been  "  Miss  Mildred  "  to  people  !  —  a  way  of  speak 
ing  that  came  by  degrees,  a  phrase  full  of  the  patronage  of 
compassion,  and  the  dreary  recognition  of  her  lost  youth. 
Yet  Mildred  is  not  so  very  old.  She  felt  young  enough  the 
day  it  happened,  bounding  out  from  her  blue  room  in  blue 
ribbons,  while  the  picnic  wagon  stood  waiting,  and  Jamie 
Lenna  called  her  at  the  door,  and  her  mother  —  Yes,  her 
mother  trips  ;  that  is  all.  Her  mother  trips,  and  the  low, 
wide,  oiled  stairs  are  slippery,  and  Mildred  springs.  She 
knows  how  to  put  one  hand  on  the  baluster  and  bound 
down  ;  she  is  a  hoidenish  girl  perhaps,  lithe  and  fearless. 
To  leap  and  fling  herself  before  the  sliding  figure  is  the 
work  of  a  thought  — 

So  here  she  is. 

Jamie  Lenna  used  to  call  at  first,  but  she  could  not  see 
him.  And  by  and  by  he  moved  to  Boston.  He  was  a  nice 
boy,  but  he  liked  well  people.  He  had  always  seemed  like 
a  boy  to  Mildred  ;  most  of  the  young  men  in  Hamlet  did. 
Outside  of  Hamlet  it  was  different,  for  Mildred  had  been 
outside  of  Hamlet.  But  Jamie  was  outspoken  and  honest, 
and  told  a  good  story  ;  she  would  have  liked  to  see  him 
now  and  then.  Mildred  had  been  one  of  those  frank,  merry 
girls  who  are  easily  "  good  friends  "  with  the  young  fel 
lows. 

But  only  the  girls  came  now  into  the  sick-room,  and  not 
too  often,  either.  Mildred  remembers  a  Miss  Jones,  who 
used  to  be  The  Invalid  of  Hamlet ;  had  consumption,  but 
would  n't  die  ;  lasted  unpardonably  long ;  people  went  to 
see  her  fast-days  and  Sundays  after  church ;  sent  her  jelly 
when  it  was  left  over,  and  ice-cream  after  parties  if  the 
children  did  n't  eat  it  all  for  breakfast.  When  there  was 
a  sermon  on  charity,  or  a  revival,  Miss  Jones  was  run  to 
death  with  callers.  She  was  the  village  scape-goat  for  an 


302  MISS  MILDRED'S  FRIEND. 

uneasy  conscience.  Sometimes  a  dozen  people  would  sit  in 
lier  room  at  once  ;  then  nobody  would  go  near  her  for  a 
fortnight.  All  the  small  boys  of  the  village  objected  to 
Miss  Jones.  Mildred  had  a  brother  in  those  days,  a  mis 
chievous  little  fellow.  Tom  was  drowned,  poor  boy,  but  no 
body  could  drown  his  frolic  out  of  Mildred's  heart.  Tom 
used  to  say  that  Deacon  Brim  was  gone,  and  Miss  Jones 
was  going,  and  then  there  would  be  nobody  left  in  town  to 
have  to  take  things  to  after  dinner. 

O 

"  I  am  an  old  story  in  Hamlet,"  said  Mildred,  on  this 
windy  night.  "  I  am  growing  to  be  a  Miss  Jones  to  people 
—  the  town  invalid." 

She  called  her  mother  presently,  hearing  her  stir.  "  Mam 
ma,  dear,  have  you  written  your  letter  ?  Did  you  say  yes  ? 
And  you  think  he  will  come  ?  If  I  were  you,  mamma,  I 
would  n't  begin  by  asking  this  gentleman  about  his  wife's 
health.  People  with  sick  ^ives  are  tired  of  sickness. 
Would  you  mind,  mother  —  just  to  please  me?  I  should 
be  worried.  Don't  ask  him.  Let  him  say  what  he  pleases 
about  his  domestic  affairs." 

"  Very  well,  Mildred,"  Mrs.  Snowe  assented,  with  the 
slightly  weary  and  patronizing  air  of  a  watcher  who  must 
humor  the  whims  of  the  dying  —  "  very  well.  Give  your 
self  no  anxiety.  I  will  do  the  proper  thing,  and  please  you 
too,  if  possible." 

No  interesting  disease  prevented  Mr.  Henry  Hogarth 
from  fulfilling  his  advertised  engagement  to  lecture  upon 
Antiquities  in  the  Hamlet  Citizens'  Star  Lecture  Course. 
Mrs.  Snowe  (in  black  bellon  and  crepe  lisse)  observed 
through  the  drawing-room  windows,  as  he  came  up  the 
long,  old-fashioned  flagged  walk,  that  he  had  not  even  the 
lecturer's  bronchial  hack  ;  an  unreasonably  well  man,  who, 
she  believed,  did  not  so  much  as  take  troches.  She  never 
remembered  entertaining  a  lecturer  before  who  did  not  come 
into  the  house  with  a  troche  in  his  mouth. 


MISS  MILDRED'S  FRIEND.  303 

"  And  the  modern  improvements  in  troches  are  so  great," 
thought  Mrs.  Snowe,  pensively.  It  seemed  as  if  a  man  in 
that  profession  would  eat  them  for  the  luxury  of  testifying 
to  the  advancement  of  science. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  very  much  fatigued  with  your  jour 
ney  ?  "  began  Mrs.  Snowe,  sympathetically,  extending  her 
delicate  and  hospitable  hand. 

"  Thank  you,  not  at  all.     I  am  seldom  tired." 

The  hearty  words  rang  over  the  sad  and  silent  house. 
Mildred  heard  them  up-stairs.  A  happy  man,  she  thought. 
An  interesting  man,  notwithstanding  his  extreme  health, 
thought  Mrs.  Snowe,  scrutinizing  him  over  her  silver  tea- 
urn  at  supper.  She  liked  him.  All  the  woman  in  her  re 
sponded  to  his  quick,  dark  eyes  and  straight  shoulders  and 
firm  mouth  ;  his  full,  vibrating  voice  ;  his  outright  way  of 
saying,  "  What  a  cup  of  tea  !  "  his  unexpressed  (but  evident) 
pleasure  in  being  delicately  entertained;  his  readiness  to  be 
"  made  at  home,"  and  his  fluent,  excellent  stories. 

A  man  was  a  rarity  now  at  the  Snowes'.  The  widow 
felt  a  change  in  the  atmosphere,  as  if  she  had  gone  to  the 
beach  or  the  mountains.  She  experienced  a  faint  excite 
ment  in  putting  on  her  bonnet  to  attend  the  lecture.  She 
had  one  of  the  faces  which  it  is  easiest  to  classify  by  saying, 
She  is  a  woman  who  looks  her  best  in  a  bonnet.  Yet  let 
us  understand  her.  Mrs.  Snowe  was  a  lady,  not  a  flirt. 
For  a  woman  of  her  years  to  wear  her  widow's  veil  a  fold 
the  more  or  less  becomingly  for  the  sake  of  a  gentleman, 
she  would  have  felt  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart  was  vul 
gar.  Still,  as  I  say,  there  existed  this  undefined  stimulant 
to  the  pose  of  the  bonnet.  Mildred  and  Mrs.  Hobson  were 
so  used  to  things,  and  did  not  notice  how  one  looked. 

Now  the  lecturer,  it  had  already  become  evident,  did. 
He  saw  everything  :  the  silhouette  of  Konewka's  on  the 
tile  beneath  the  tea-pot ;  the  square  pattern  of  hand-carv 
ing  (a  hundred  years  old)  in  the  white  painted  cornice  of 


304  MISS  MILDRED'S  FKIEND. 

the  softly  lighted  and  heavily  shaded  room,  fourteen  feet 
high  above  his  head  ;  the  Shetland  shawl,  too,  that  had 
dropped  to  the  floor  by  the  sideboard :  it  was  blue  —  her 
daughter's  shawl,  she  told  him,  as  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up. 
With  his  permission,  she  would  take  him  up  to  see  the  poor 
girl  presently.  It  was  a  case  of  nervous  shock  and  abrasion 
of  one  of  the  cervical  vertebrae  —  an  accident. 

"He  would  rather  come  up  after  lecture,"  said  Mrs. 
Snowe,  kissing  Mildred  good-by.  She  was  a  little  hurried, 
and  chiefly  kissed  her  own  veil,  while  Mildred  made  the  best 
of  her  way  through  a  mouthful  of  crape  to  hastily  cry :  — 

"  Don't  bother  him  to  drag  him  into  a  sick-room,  mother  ! 
• —  don't !  Let  the  poor  man  go  to  bed  in  peace." 

In  her  heart  she  wondered  if  he  were  not  rather  relieved, 
on  the  whole,  that  his  business  required  him  to  be  so  much 
away  from  that  other  sick-room  and  that  other  sufferer,  to 
whom  his  affectionate  and  celebrated  loyalty  was  so  sensi 
tive  ;  for  the  well,  be  they  never  so  loyal  and  affectionate, 
are  glad  to  be  free.  Mildred  knew. 

What  Mr.  Hogarth  expected  to  find  when,  still  flushed 
with  the  proud  pleasure  of  leading  the  Hamlet  intellect  cap 
tive  into  that  region  vaguely  described  by  his  hostess  as 
"Antiquities,"  he  followed  her  up  the  wide,  low  stairs 
which  Mildred  had  not  crossed  for  three  years,  it  is  not 
easy  to  say.  He  was  a  man  of  broad  experience,  setting  his 
domestic  afflictions  even  out  of  the  account,  and  prepared 
for  anything  in  the  invalid  line,  —  dark  rooms,  camphor, 
paregoric,  tears  or  a  whine,  bottles  on  everything,  the  ther 
mometer  at  ninety,  a  good  deal  about  the  doctor,  and  a 
singularly  hideous  shade  of  purple-gray,  of  which  he  had 
observed  that  very  yellow  sick  people  always  had  their 
wrappers  made. 

What  he  found  —  rather,  let  me  say,  what  he  felt  —  was 
at  first  a  delicate  misty  fine  sense  of  the  color  of  blue  —  a 
pale  blue  with  much  lace  drapery.  He  stood  in  a  lady's 


MISS  MILDRED'S  FKIEND.  305 

parlor,  it  seemed  ;  a  small  room,  with  a  recess  closely  cur 
tained.  Books  were  about,  and  flowers.  A  window  was 
open.  A  low  fire  in  an  open  grate  flickered  gently.  Not  a 
bottle  was  to  be  seen.  Mrs.  Hobson  was  not  present.  The 
lamps  were  shaded  with  blue  and  creamy  laces,  but  burned 
cheerily  beside  the  lounge  on  which  Mildred  lay,  easily 
putting  out  her  little  hand,  with  the  frank,  girlish  motion 
she  had  never  lost,  to  say  :  — 

u  It  is  kind  in  you  to  come  up,  Mr.  Hogarth,  and  I  am 
glad  to  see  you.  Do  you  like  smoking-chairs  ?  Because 
there  's  one  I  keep  for  people  who  do.  No  ;  mother  likes 
her  low  rocker  here  by  me.  So  I  can  see  you  both.  That 
is  right ! " 

Mildred  had  a  voice  of  which  it  was  not  possible  to  say 
that  sickness  had  not  saddened  it  slightly,  but  it  had  not 
soured  it  b^  a  fleck ;  and  she  had  no  whine.  She  laughed, 
too,  most  merrily.  She  wore  something  of  cream-colored 
cashmere  and  blue  ribbons.  She  had  a  little  lace  cap  over 
her  smooth  hair,  which  was  light  and  abundant,  and  grew 
low  upon  her  temples  and  forehead,  brushed  back  in  those 
natural  waves,  the  peculiar  charm  of  low,  thick  hair,  and 
which  are  sufficient  in  themselves  to  draw  an  attentive 
glance  repeatedly  to  a  woman's  face.  Then  she  had  her 
unspoiled  complexion,  and  her  eyes  ;  but  the  visitor  did  not 
quite  make  out  Miss  Mildred's  eyes.  They  struck  him  as 
fine  but  guarded  ;  only  slightly,  however,  and  (who  could 
say  ?)  possibly  thereby  revealed  the  more  clearly,  like 
ladies'  faces  behind  what  are  called  masque  veils. 

They  fell  into  talk,  easy  and  ready  as  Mildred's  laughter. 
Mr.  Hogarth  leaned  back  in  the  smoking-chair  ;  he  did  not 
even  miss  his  cigar  —  yet.  The  reaction  from  the  strain 
of  public  speech  came  on  gently  in  the  calm  blue  room  ; 
each  nerve  adjusted  itself  to  every  other  with  a  certain 
pleasurable  leisure.  They  talked  of  lectures  and  lecturers, 
of  Hamlet  society,  of  Boston  music,  of  Western  hotels,  of 

20 


506  MISS  MILDRED'S  FRIEND. 

Yankee  idioms,  pastry,  and  poetry.  Mrs.  Snowe  was  "  dy 
ing  "  to  ask  about  his  wife's  Deterioration,  but  remained 
loyal  to  Mildred,  and  contented  herself  with  vague  remarks 
about  Antiquities,  and  with  observing  that  her' daughter 
had  long  admired  Mr.  Hogarth's  works. 

"  My  works  ?  "  echoed  their  visitor,  with  one  of  his  quick 
looks. 

"  Your  poems,  sir." 

"  I  never  wrote  a  poem  in  my  life  that  I  know  of  —  but 
once." 

"But  Mildred  said  —  I  am  sure  you  said  Mr.  Hogarth 
was  a  poet,  Mildred." 

"  You  wrote  a  song  about  the  sea,"'  replied  Mildred, 
quietly.  "  I  thought  everybody  knew  it." 

"  Oh,  that !  And  you  called  me  a  poet  for  it  ?  You  are 
generous." 

"  It  never  struck  me  so.  I  am  not  apt  to  be  generous 
with  people  who  work  (or  live)  only  in  moods.  I  think  I 
was  only  just  to  the  poem." 

Mildred  spoke  in  a  grave,  impartial  tone,  as  if  she  were 
discussing  some  character  dead  and  buried  in  a  text-book  of 
English  literature  ;  it  was  impossible  to  be  foolishly  flat 
tered.  Mr.  Hogarth  felt  that  he  had  been  severely  weighed 
and  measured  in  the  making  up  of  this  judgment ;  he  was 
not  sure  that  this  thoughtful  little  invalid  (was  she  little, 
though?  In  all  those  wraps,  who  could  say?)  did  not  rate 
him,  on  the  whole,  as  a  man  of  mood  rather  than  of  pur 
pose,  and  while  appreciating  his  best,  set  him  down  as  in 
capable  of  living  up  to  it.  He  felt  at  once  gratified  and 
stung.  He  should  either  like  or  dislike  this  sick  girl,  deci 
dedly,  he  thought,  yielding  to  the  almost  inevitable  impulse 
of  the  author  whom  a  stranger's  criticism  has  moved.  What 
most  people  say  of  us  does  not  matter.  But  you  who  have 
hit  the  truth,  we  never  forget. 

"  It  was  something  about  the  tide,"  hummed  Mrs.  Snowe. 


MISS  MILDRED'S  FRIEND.  307 


"  '  When  the  tide  comes  in, 
When  mv  love  leans  '  "  — 


"  Oh,  mother,  please  !  You  have  n't  it  right,"  cried  Mil 
dred,  so  hastily  that  Mrs.  Snowe,  with  what  she  felt  was 
admirable  tact,  changed  the  subject  at  once  to  Homoeo 
pathy. 

Soon  after,  what  appeared  to  Mr.  Hogarth  to  be  a  walnut 
bureau  rolled  into  the  dark  doorway.  It  proved  to  be  Mrs. 
Hobson,  who  said  that  it  was  time  for  Miss  Mildred's  drops. 
Mr.  Hogarth  remembered  as  he  went  away  that  this  was 
the  first  word  he  had  heard  mentioned  about  the  poor  girl's 
illness  since  he  had  been  in  the  blue  room.  She  must  have 
put  her  mother  under  a  severe  course  of  training  in  that 
respect. 

"  He  never  once  mentioned  his  wife !  "  mourned  Mrs. 
Snowe  when  she  came  to  kiss  Mildred  good-night.  "  And 
I  spoke  of  the  difficulties  of  such  a  public  life  to  a  domestic 
man.  In  fact,  I  did  n't  really  make  out  where  his  home 
was,  or  even  if  he  had  a  home.  Did  you  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  ask  him,"  replied  Mildred,  pulling  out  the 
comb  from  under  her  lace  cap  and  letting  her  hair  down 
for  Mrs.  Hobson  to  brush.  She  looked  younger  with  her 
hair  down. 

Mr.  Hogarth's  lectures  in  Hamlet  were  eight  in  number. 
He  came  twice  a  week  till  they  were  given,  remaining  the 
guest  of  Mrs.  Snowe. 

"  I  feel  that  I  know  him  like  a  —  relation,"  Mrs.  Snowe 
used  to  observe  vaguely,  but  with  great  earnestness.  "  In 
fact,  he  seems  to  be  very  happy  with  us ;  as  if  he  had 
always  lived  here." 

He  certainly  did  seem  happy ;  Mildred  admitted  as  much 
as  this.  He  was,  of  course,  a  great  deal  in  the  sick-room 
—  the  sitting-room  of  the  family.  As  they  grew  better 
acquainted,  Mrs.  Snowe  left  them  sometimes  together. 

"These  have  been  four  pleasant  weeks  to  me,"  said  Mil- 


808  MISS  MILDRED'S  FRIEND. 

dred,  in  her  frank  way,  one  evening  as  the  limit  of  his  stay 
approached. 

"  Have  they  ?  "  Henry  Hogarth  hesitated  a  moment ;  he 
came  and  stood  by  her  sofa,  looking  down.  The  man  of  the 
well  world  felt  that  he  must  protect  the  invalid.  He  paused 
before  saying,  "  1  am  glad.  I  have  enjoyed  them  too." 

"  Thank  you.     I  see  so  few  people  "  — 

Mildred  looked  up  with  her  candid  but  still  gravely- 
guarded  eyes.  They  were  alone  just  then,  and  both  fell 
silent.  Hogarth  glanced  about  the  blue  room ;  his  eye  took 
in  every  familiar  detail  in  the  sheltered  lonely  place  —  all 
so  like  her  !  all  grown  in  his  memory  now,  a  part  of  a  sweet, 
brave  life,  and  of  the  story  of  his  admission  to  its  trustful 
friendliness.  He  thought  he  should  always  remember  the 
color  of  the  Chinese  crape  shoulder  robe,  the  pale  pearl  of 
the  ceiling,  the  names  and  bindings  of  the  books,  where  the 
flowers  stood,  and  the  piano,  which  window  was  open,  with 
the  lace  curtain  drawn  over  the  stuff  one,  and  the  pictures  : 
there  was  a  Landseer,  one  of  Norton's  beaches,  Holbein's 
Madonna,  Ary  Scheffer's  Francesca  di  Rimini,  and  Leonar 
do's  Christ  among  them ;  the  last  two  hung  in  the  corner 
opposite  the  sofa.  The  fire  burned  low  in  the  grate  be 
tween. 

It  was  a  cheerful  room,  but  ah!  so  pitifully  resigned! 
The  man  looked  about  impatiently,  then  down  again  at  her. 

Her  head  ached  that  evening  —  he  could  see  —  and  she 
had  thrown  aside  her  lace  cap  ;  her  hair  fell  in  two  long 
braids,  like  a  little  girl's,  and  her  cheeks  were  flushed  with 
pain  of  which  she  did  not  speak.  The  beautiful,  brave 
face  !  The  poor,  denied,  appealing  face  ! 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  asked  Mildred,  looking  up. 

But  he  had  said  nothing.  He  turned  away,  muttering 
something  about  being  there  only  once  again,  and  that  he 
should  miss  coming  to  Hamlet. 

"  I  am  glad  you  will  miss  us,"  said  Mildred,  openly. 


MISS  MILDRED'S  FRIEND.  809 

He  wondered,  as  he  stood  there,  what  it  would  be  like  to 
be  this  peaceful,  patient  woman  shut  up  there,  seeing  noth 
ing,  suffering  everything.  And  still  so  young ! 

When  she  was  well  it  was  evident  that  she  had  seen 
something  of  the  world ;  she  had  been  admired,  he  thought. 
He  knew  when  a  woman  had  been  admired  without  her 
saying  so ;  the  rather  if  she  did  not  say  so.  But  now  — 
why,  she  had  not  seen  a  man  for  three  years,  except  her 
doctor  and  her  minister.  Mr.  Hogarth  had  indirectly 
found  out  all  about  them.  The  minister  was  seventy ;  the 
doctor  was  married  and  loved  his  wife.  Besides  — 

Mrs.  Snowe  rustled  in.  She,  too,  felt  sorry  to  think  how 
soon  they  should  lose  their  guest.  She  had  enjoyed  having 
some  one  to  sit  opposite  at  her  lonely  teas  and  breakfasts. 
The  sad,  sick  woman's  house  reluctantly  yielded  its  hold  on 
the  well  and  happy  but  elusive  man.  Still,  Mrs.  Snowe 
was  too  old  a  woman  to  forget  the  main  objects  of  existence 
in  its  casual  recreations.  She  could  not  but  admit  it  to  be 
very  strange  that  all  this  while  Mr.  Hogarth  had  never 
spoken  of  his  wife.  She  could  not  deny  that  she  did  not 
altogether  approve  of  this  reticence.  She  had  said  so  to 
Mildred.  She  talked  a  good  deal  to-night  about  the  sacred- 
ness  of  home,  its  cares  and  anxieties.  She  reproached  her 
self  for  her  unwary  promise  to  her  daughter  not  to  start 
the  subject  of  Deterioration  ;  thought  she  should  know 
better  next  time.  But  Mildred  said,  if  a  man  were  silent 
about  his  domestic  life,  the  more  reason  for  respecting  his 
reserve,  and  suggested  that  perhaps  Mrs.  Hogarth  did  not 
like  to  be  talked  about.  But  Mrs.  Snowe  replied  that  she 
thought  more  likely  she  was  an  idiot  or  insane. 

"  There  is  a  wish  expressed,"  began  Mrs.  Snowe,  on  this 
evening,  when  she  had  taken  her  low  rocker  by  Mildred, 
and  turned  her  handsome  profile  toward  their  visitor  —  "a 
very  general  wish  expressed  that  Mr.  Hogarth  should  come 
again  in  a  few  weeks  and  give  his  course  on  Egyptology  in 


310  MISS  MILDRED'S  FKIEND. 

Hamlet ;  but  in  a  more  select  manner,  Mr.  Hogarth  —  in 
some  parlor,  by  private  arrangement  with  some  of  our  best 
people.  I  was  requested  to  mention  it  to  you.  I  was 
asked  to  do  so  by  Mrs.  Martin  B.  Hallowell.  She  wishes 
to  entertain  you,  but  I  hope  you  will  consider  yourself  pre- 
engaged.  Mrs.  Hallowell  is  a  very  interesting  lady,  with  a 
tendency  to  consumption.  She  has  old-school  treatment." 

Mildred  had  looked  up  quickly  when  her  mother  spoke  ; 
she  had  heard  nothing  of  this  before.  For  the  instant  her 
unguarded  eyes  leaped  out.  He  saw  them,  for  he,  too,  had 
been  taken  by  surprise,  and  turned  quickly  toward  her.  He 
saw  them,  and  answered,  after  some  thought,  that  he  thanked 
the  people  of  Hamlet  for  their  interest  in  his  work.  It 
would  be  impossible  for  him  to  decide  so  unexpected  a  point 
just  now.  He  was  not  in  the  habit  of  giving  parlor  courses. 
He  said  he  would,  however,  consider  it,  and  rather  abruptly 
bade  the  ladies  good-night.  He  took  Mildred's  hand  gravely, 
and  bowed  with  formality. 

Mildred  looked  after  him.  Her  mother  buzzed  on,  but 
she  did  not  hear.  Mrs.  Hobson  came  to  brush  her  hair. 
Well,  it  must  be  borne ;  she  tossed  the  long,  bright  braids 
at  her  silently.  As  Mrs.  Hobson  untwisted,  waves  of  light 
came  out  and  flooded  the  invalid's  face. 

"  You  look  to  me,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Hobson,  "  as  if 
you  needed  a  little  chamomilla.  Or  shall  I  read  that  story 
of  Auer bake's  awhile  ?  " 

But  Mildred  thanked  her,  and  got  alone  as  soon  as  might 
be.  Chamomilla  and  "  Auerbake  "  were  not  to  the  pur 
pose.  Her  face  looked  out,  shocked,  hurt,  and  old,  between 
all  that  young  glad  hair.  To  the  bottom  of  her  soul  the 
woman  felt  shocked  and  hurt.  If  she  lived  till  morning, 
she  would  tell  him;  but  what  would  Mildred  tell  him? 
"What  could  a  woman  tell  a  man  who  had  dared  — 

She  checked  herself.  Mr.  Hogarth  had  dared  nothing. 
He  had  hurt  her  without  daring  ;  he  had  shocked  her  with 
out  speech. 


MISS   MILDRED'S   FKIEND.  311 

Indefinable  as  the  oxygen  in  the  air  had  been  her  trust 
fulness  and  happiness  an  hour  since  ;  indefinable  as  the 
carbon  in  the  close  room  her  sense  of  outrage  now.  Men 
knew  how  to  do  those  things,  risking  nothing,  saying  noth 
ing,  cruelly.  Perhaps  they  did  not  know  how  to  do  them 
in  any  other  way. 

She  called  to  Mrs.  Hobson  to  fling  both  windows  wide 
open,  and  lay  looking  from  her  curtained  alcove  with 
smoldering  eyes  that  flashed  now  and  then  about  the  de 
serted  room.  The  fire  trembled  and  went  out.  The  out 
lines  of  the  books  grew  dim,  and  of  the  sofa  and  the  smok- 
ing-chair.  The  hyacinths  gave  out  the  strong  tenderness 
of  a  flower's  night.  Francesca,  on  the  pure  blue  wall,  with 
closed  eyes,  whirled  through  hell,  and  above  her  the  Christ 
looked  down. 

In  the  morning,  when  Mr.  Hogarth  came  to  say  good-by, 
Mildred  looked  uncommonly  well.  She  had  a  pink  ribbon, 
instead  of  the  blue,  knotted  into  the  cashmere  wrapper, 
and  the  flush  of  the  headache  had  not  faded  from  her 
cheek  ;  it  was  dying  slowly,  like  an  undisturbed  and  gentle 
fire.  She  said  :  — 

"  If  you  come  back  to  give  the  other  course  of  lectures, 
Mr.  Hogarth,  I  hope,  as  mother  does,  that  you  will  con 
sider  this  your  home." 

"  Thank  you.  If  I  come  —  You  are  very  kind.  I  have 
not  decided." 

"  And  I  wish  it  were  possible,"  Mildred  continued,  "  to 
bring  Mrs.  Hogarth  with  you.  Does  she  never  go  any 
where  ?  Is  she  quite  unable  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Hogarth  "  —  A  rapid  change,  which  puzzled  Mil 
dred,  swept  his  face.  It  was  a  face  never  too  easy  to  read  at 
best.  "  I  thank  you.  Mrs.  Hogarth  is  "  —  He  hesitated. 

"  We  have  always  understood  she  was  ill,"  Mildred 
hastened  to  add,  "  but  I  did  not  know  how  seriously  —  Mr. 


312  MISS   MILDRED'S   FRIEND. 

Hogarth  !  Why  do  you  smile  ?  Why  do  you  laugh  ?  If 
I  had  a  sick  wife,  I  never  would  laugh  at  her,  sir  !  Never ! 
Not  if  she  were  the  most  unreasonable  and  fussy  person 
in  the  world.  And  I  never  would  "  —  She  stopped.  It 
was  a  dead  stop. 

Henry  Hogarth  threw  himself  down  in  the  smok ing- 
chair  and  laughed  in  good  earnest  now ;  peals  of  merriment 
rang  through  the  blue  room  and  out  into  the  silent  house. 
Mrs.  Snowe,  in  a  becoming  morning  cap,  glided  in  to  share 
the  fun.  She  said  she  was  glad  to  see  him  enliven  Mil 
dred  so. 

"  Mr.  Hogarth  is  laughing  at  his  wife,"  said  Mildred, 
angrily.  "  Or  else  at  me.  I  don't  know  which.  I  don't 
believe  he  does  himself." 

This  was  Mrs.  Snowe's  hour.  She  had  borne  too  much, 
and  resisted  too  long.  Flushed  and  tremulous  with  excite 
ment,  she  moved  the  matronly  little  rocker  nearer  to  the 
smoking-chair,  and,  in  her  saddest  and  most  intelligently 
pathological  tones,  began  :  — 

"  Ah !  your  poor  wife  !  I  have  never  mentioned  her, 
Mr.  Hogarth,  but  I  assure  you,  not  from  want  of  sympathy. 
Mildred  would  n't  let  me.  She  said  men  never  liked  to 
talk  about  diseases.  Whereas,  in  this  case  —  so  uncommon 
—  and  I  have  heard  all  about  it  from  many  sources  —  your 
kindness  and  patience  "  — 

"  But,  Mrs.  Snowe  "  — 

"  I  insist  upon  saying  my  say,  sir.  Such  patience  is 
seldom  surpassed  and  never  equaled  among  husbands,  Mr. 
Hogarth.  Oh,  I  know !  Don't  protest.  You  deserve  to 
be  told  how  the  public  revere  you  for  your  devotion  —  and 
in  a  boarding-house  too  —  and  coming  home  at  nine  o'clock 
from  parties  because  she  prefers  "  — 

"  But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Snowe  "  — 

"  Because  she  prefers  you  to  the  maid,"  persisted  Mrs. 
Snowe,  triumphantly,  "  and  writing  at  a  little  table  by  her 


MISS  MILDRED'S  FEIEND.  313 

side.  Ah  !  Sir,  we  know  how  it  all  is  —  and  she  sick  so 
many  years.  And  that  it  was  a  most  uncommon  and  trying 
disease  I  Ve  always  heard,  but  Mildred  would  n't  let  me  say 
how  I  sympathize  with  you  both.  But  now,  Mr.  Hogarth, 
the  ice  is  broken,  and  you  know  we  know  your  goodness 
and  patience  and  all  about  it,  I  think  I  may  ask  if  she  has 
homoeopathic  treatment,  and  what  it  is  Deterioration  of? 
And  "  — 

"  But,  my  dear  Mrs.  Snowe,"  gasped  the  gentleman 
again,  "  hear  me  a  moment.  I  must  protest  —  indeed  I 
must.  For  there  is  n't  "  — 

«  Sir !  " 

"  There  is  n't  any,"  said  Mr.  Hogarth,  more  quietly. 

tl  Any  what  ?  "  cried  Mrs.  Snowe. 

"  Any  Mrs.  Hogarth,"  said  the  guest,  meekly. 

"  But  you  must  be  mistaken,"  insisted  she,  putting  her 
hand  to  her  forehead.  After  a  pause  she  faintly  said :  — 

"Is  she  dead,  then?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of." 

"  And  you  never  lived  with  her  in  two  little  rooms  at  a 
boarding-house  ?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

"  Nor  were  so  devoted  and  good,  and  all  that  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  never  yet." 

"  And  she  never  had  Deterioration  of  Any  thing  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  ever  heard  of." 

"  And  she  is  n't  insane,  or  an  idiot  ?  " 

"  Decidedly  not." 

"  You  mean,  then,"  returned  the  lady,  in  some  sense  re 
covering  her  composure  after  this  blow,  "  that  you  are  not 
a  married  man  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  am  not." 

"  And  never  were  ?  " 

"  To  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and  belief,  never." 

"  But  we  heard  all  about  it,"  urged  Mrs.  Snowe,  mourn 
fully  —  "  all  the  details  —  a  great  many  times." 


314  MISS  MILDRED'S  FRIEND. 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  the  poet  and  lecturer.  "  I  am 
always  hearing  my  own  biography  in  full,  with  variations 
according  to  the  latitude  and  longitude.  In  Massachusetts, 
my  wife  is  ill ;  in  Maine,  she  is  dead ;  in  Texas,  I  am  di 
vorced  ;  in  California,  I  am  engaged  to  an  actress.  I  don't 
know  whether  the  soul  of  man  is  immortal,  but  I  know  his 
gossip  is.  But  really,  I  think  this  was  funny." 

Really,  Mildred  thought  so,  too.  Her  smoldering  look 
was  gone,  her  eyes  were  electric  with  fun,  as  he  shook 
hands  hurriedly,  for  Mrs.  Hobson  lumbered  in  to  say  that 
the  carriage  was  at  the  door. 

But  Mrs.  Snowe  could  not  be  reconciled.  Now  she 
should  never  know  what  it  was  Deterioration  of.  She  felt 
that  she  had  been  defrauded  of  a  rare  experience,  and  at 
first  quite  inclined  to  let  Mr.  Hogarth  go  to  the  Jessops'  or 
the  Hallowells'  if  he  returned  for  the  Parlor  Course.  She 
was  much  depressed  the  rest  of  the  day  ;  talked  a  good 
deal  about  her  boy  who  was  drowned  ;  thought  if  he  had 
not  had  scarlatina  so  recently,  he  would  have  resisted  the 
1  cramp  ;  and  said  that  if  Jamie  Lenna  had  not  called  so 
loud  that  day  of  the  picnic,  she  should  never  have  started 
and  slipped,  and  poor  Mildred  would  have  been  like  other 
girls. 

They  met  next  time  like  children.  A  beautiful  joyous- 
ness  seemed  to  be  in  the  air  that  they  might  breathe  it. 
Hogarth  came  in  laughing.  He  had  never  known  before, 
he  thought,  what  wonderful  eyes  she  had.  They  were  not 
guarded  to-day ;  they  sported  with  him.  He  held  out  his 
hand,  retaining  hers  a  moment,  as  if  to  be  sure  he  touched 
it,  then  sat  down  in  the  smoking-chair,  and  looked  at  her 
merrily. 

"  So  you  thought  me  an  old  married  man  all  this  while  ?  " 

"  You  knew  I  did  !  " 

"  With  an  invalid  wife,  whom  I  "  — 


MISS  MILDKED'S  FKIEND.  315 

"  Never  mind  her,  sir." 

"  Whom  I  was  tired  of  ?  " 

"  Naturally,  yes." 

"  You  must  have  thought  I  behaved  pretty  well,  consider 
ing." 

"  Well,  perhaps  so,  on  the  whole.  But  you  insulted  me, 
sir,  once." 

"  I  ?      You  ?     Tell  me  what  you  mean." 

"  1  shall  never  tell  you,"  cried  Mildred,  shaking  her  head 
with  a  sweet  obstinacy.  "  But  you  did.  I  was  very  angry ; 
I  am  a  little  angry  yet.  But  never  mind :  I  am  glad  to  see 
you  back.  You  look  tired,  though  !  " 

She  turned  toward  him  with  a  familiar  affectionateness, 
like  that  of  a  very  old  friend. 

"  I  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  here,"  murmured  Hogarth. 

She  did  not  answer  this.  The  windows  were  open,  for 
the  afternoon  was  warm,  and  the  sounds  of  the  approach 
ing  spring  were  in  the  air.  The  melting  snow  trickled 
somewhere  unseen,  like  a  brook  beneath  leaves.  The  first 
robin  of  the  year  sang  as  they  sat  listening. 

"  Summer  is  coming,"  said  Mildred. 

"  You  are  happier  in  the  summer  ?  you  are  better  ?  "  he 
asked,  with  unconcealed  tenderness. 

"  Oh,  so  much  better  !  Mrs.  Hobson  rolls  me  out  upon 
the  piazza  roof.  I  mean  to  be  taken  down-stairs  this  year. 
When  I  can  touch  grass  with  my  foot,  I  shall  be  so  grateful 
-so  glad!" 

"  You  look  glad,"  said  Hogarth,  dreamily,  "  already.  And 
you  have  n't  touched  the  grass  yet." 

An  indefinable  expression  flitted  over  Mildred's  forehead. 
She  pushed  her  hair  back  as  if  to  push  it  away. 

"  Why  are  you  so  glad  ?  "  pursued  the  man,  inexorably. 

"  Why  are  you  ?  "  flashed  the  woman,  turning  upon  him. 
She  looked  young  and  well,  brimming  with  mischief. 

"I  don't  know,"  answered   Hogarth,  honestly  enough. 


316  MISS  MILDKED'S  FKIEND. 

He  really  did  not  see  what  they  had  to  be  glad  about.  He 
thought  he  knew  her  too  well  for  that.  Perhaps,  alas  ! 
perhaps  he  knew  himself  too  well,  besides. 

"  /  know,"  said  Mildred,  more  quietly.  "  I  am  glad,  be 
cause  "  — 

"  Well !  "  for  she  hesitated. 

"  Because  I  really  believe  that  you  are  my  friend,"  con 
tinued  she,  simply. 

"  I  wish  I  were  worthy !  " 

"  And  would  contribute  to  my  happiness,  would  make  my 
life  easier,  if  you  could." 

"  God  knows  !     Yes,  if  I  could." 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  Mildred,  contentedly ;  and  then  fell 
silent,  as  if  there  were  nothing  more  to  be  said. 

Hogarth  heard  the  robin  plainly  as  they  sat  there,  singing 
as  if  its  heart  would  break  with  joy.  But  Mildred  listened 
chiefly  to  the  melting  snow. 

"  Why  should  it  make  you  so  glad,"  asked  he,  breaking 
the  silence,  "  to  know  that  we  were  friends  —  only  friends  ? 
You -have  many  such." 

No,  not  many  such.  But  she  did  not  tell  him  that.  She 
said,  in  her  sweet  voice,  with  its  minor  ring  :  "  If  you  had 
lain  here  —  for  three  years  —  perhaps  you  would  under 
stand.  I  cannot  explain." 

The  man  of  the  world  looked  down  at  her,  perplexed; 
he  did  not  understand  this  invalid  girl.  Many  women  would 
feel  that  he  was  playing  a  cruel,  perhaps  an  unmanly,  part ; 
would  withdraw,  wounded,  from  his  half  assertions  and  his 
hints.  Mildred  did  not  withdraw.  She  advanced. 

Yet  the  child  was  as  sensitive  as  the  snow-drop  that  lay 
hidden  yonder  beneath  the  drift  beside  that  happy  brook 
they  could  not  see.  He  wished  he  were  sure  that  he  un 
derstood  her.  He  felt  the  extreme  helplessness  of  a  man 
in  such  a  position,  which  is  beyond  the  helplessness  of  the 
woman,  inasmuch  as  it  carries  the  responsibilities  of  both. 


MISS   MILDRED'S   FRIEND.  317 

A  moment  since,  perhaps,  he  wished  he  could  be  sure  that 
he  understood  himself.  But  he  had  forgotten  that  now. 

"  A  man  who  could  be  a  friend,  a  real  friend,  to  a  woman 
situated  as  I  am  "  —  began  Mildred,  but  paused. 

"What  would  you  do,"  cried  Hogarth,  with  rebellious 
eagerness,  "  for  such  a  man  ?  Say !  tell  me  !  " 

But  she  turned  her  face  away  from  him. 

"  You  would  do  anything  for  him  —  but  one  thing !  "  said 
he,  savagely. 

"  But  one  thing ;  yes." 

"  Ai.d  he  might  ask  —  that  —  to  the  day  of  doom;  you 
would  not  yield." 

"  I  hope  not.     I  hope  he  would  not  ask  it." 

"  Would  you  not  ask  it  if  you  were  a  man  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  !  " 

Her  voice  rang  through  the  sad,  blue  room,  strong  and 
sweet  and  assured.  Hogarth  looked  at  her  —  blindly. 

"  But  sick  people  have  ma  —  have  felt  differently.  All 
do  not  judge  so." 

"  No  ;  all  do  not  judge  so." 

"  And  people  have  been  —  have  risked  it  —  have  been 
very  happy,"  urged  the  man.  Really  he  had  not  meant  to 
go  so  far. 

He  was  stung  by  being  baffled.  She  knew  that  better 
than  himself.  She  turned  to  him;  a  certain  haggardness 
came  about  her  mouth  and  chin. 

"  Mr.  Hogarth  !     I  thought  you  were  to  be  my  friend!  " 

He  felt  the  appeal.  He  got  up  abruptly  and  walked  to 
the  window,  talking  no  more  to  her.  Pretty  soon  he  said  : 
"  It  is  time  for  me  to  go  and  look  over  my  lecture,"  and  so 
went  away. 

After  lecture  he  seemed  tired,  and  Mrs.  Snowe  was  in 
terested  in  an  account  of  a  female  electrician  who  had  come 
to  town.  Did  Mr.  Hogarth  think  it  would  be  wise  for  Mil 
dred  to  try  her  ? 


818 

"  How  can  I  tell-?  "  cried  Hogarth,  rudely  enough,  but 
there  was  distress  in  his  voice.  Mildred  looked  on  mildly ; 
she  was  sorry  for  him  —  sorrier  for  him  than  for  herself. 

"  I  wish,"  pleaded  Hogarth,  more  gently,  "  if  you  feel 
able,  that  you  would  sing  to  me  to-night,  Miss  Mildred,  — 
pardon  the  consummate  conceit  of  it,  —  that  song  of  my  own 
you  were  so  kind  as  to  like." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Mildred,  in  a  motherly  way,  as  if  he 
had  the  headache  and  needed  petting. 

Mrs.  Snowe  went  to  the  piano.  She  had  a  lady-like 
touch,  and  Mildred  sang  "  When  the  tide  comes  in  "  from 
beginning  to  end.  It  was  a  passionate  song,  and  not  with 
out  power.  It  was  the  best  he  had  ever  done,  better  than 
he  would  ever  do  again  ;  he  knew  that.  The  girl's  con 
trolled,  sweet  voice  gave  a  soul  to  the  fair  body  of  the 
rhythm,  which  it  seemed  to  him  had  waited  for  one  always 
until  now.  But  as  he  sat  with  his  hand  above  his  eyes  to 
listen,  he  thought,  "  It  is  a  lost  soul." 

The  lecturer  on  Antiquities,  in  the  Citizens'  Star  List, 
did  not  give  the  Parlor  Course  in  the  town  of  Hamlet. 
He  and  Mrs.  Martin  B.  Hallowell  compromised  upon  a  sin 
gle  lecture,  his  famous  "  Legends  of  the  Sphinx,"  to  be 
read  in  Mrs.  Hallowell's  drawing-room  upon  a  day  in  April 
—  a  severely  selected  day,  when  Hamlet  had  no  Church 
festivals,  Shakespeare  Club,  sewing  circles,  private  theat 
ricals,  prayer-meeting,  or  rival  lecturer  upon  its  mind,  and 
Mr.  Hogarth  was  not  preengaged  to  enlighten  the  rural 
New  England  intellect  upon  the  matter  of  Antiquities  in 
any  other  direction. 

In  the  interval  between  Antiquities  and  the  Sphinx  he 
wrote  to  Mildred  thus  :  — 

"  DEAR  Miss  MILDRED,  —  I  have  decided  against  the 
course  on  Egyptology,  very  reluctantly ;  but  shall  visit 


MISS  MILDRED'S  FRIEND.  319 

Hamlet  once  more  by  a  special  business  arrangement  with 
the  committee  of  ladies  who  were  interested  in  the  matter. 
I  thought  I  should  like  you  to  be  the  first  to  know  of  my 
decision.     It  seems,  on  the  whole,  to  be  the  wisest  and  best 
thing.     I  wish  to  do  the  wise  and  right  thing  if  I  can. 
"  I  hope  you  are  suffering  no  more  than  usual. 
"  I  shall  be  your  mother's  guest  again  for  this  last  time. 
"  I  am,  most  sincerely,  yours, 

"  HENRY  HOGARTH." 

But  when  he  came,  all  that  broke  down.  The  man 
meant  to  be  prudent  —  cruelly  prudent,  perhaps.  But  he 
had  not  seen  her  for  two  weeks. 

She  was  out  on  the  piazza  roof  when  he  came,  in  her  in 
valid's  chair,  looking  very  sweet  and  calm  and  happy,  trust 
fully  gazing  over  the  railing  at  the  thin  and  pale  grass  that 
sprang  below  —  the  grass  she  could  not  yet  set  her  poor 
feet  upon. 

A  mad  impulse  came  to  him  to  snatch  her  in  his  arms 
and  carry  her  down  into  the  throbbing  spring,  and  say,  "  I  '11 
hold  you  here  till  you,  too,  live  again  !  " 

For  it  might  be  —  who  knew  ?  Love  had  raised  the  dy 
ing.  Mildred  was  not  dying.  Joy  was  God's  great  healer. 
What  if  joy  were  all  she  needed !  If  happiness  could 
cure  — 

"  Good  God ! "  he  said,  brokenly  ;  "  I  believe  I  could 
make  you  happy." 

But  Mildred  answered,  "  Hush !  " 

They  sat  together  for  a  little,  quite  silent.  Mrs.  Snowe 
and  Mrs.  Hallowell  were  chattering  down  stairs  about  the 
Sphinx.  Mrs.  Hobson,  in  the  blue  room  behind  them, 
trundled  to  and  fro.  The  elm  branch  that  overhung  the 
piazza  was  tender  and  tremulous  with  buds ;  the  soft  air 
stole  by  ;  it  was  growing  green  in  between  the  irregular 
stones  of  the  old  flagged  walk. 


320  MISS   MILDRED'S   FRIEND. 

"  What  do  you  expect,"  he  cried  at  length,  impatiently 

—  "  what  do  you  expect  of  a  man  in  just  my  place  ?  " 
"  I  expect  nothing,"  replied  the  woman,  quietly. 

"  But  what  would  you  do  if  you  were  I  ?  " 

A  superb  light  shot  through  and  through  her  face. 

"  Never  mind  what  I  would  do  if  I  were  a  man.  I  am 
not." 

"  Such  acquaintances,  such  friendships,  ending  nowhere, 
meaning  nothing  "  —  he  began.  But  at  this,  for  the  first 
time,  Mildred  winced.  He  cried  out  then,  hating  himself, 
angry,  tender,  wise,  and  mad  at  once  —  a  man  ! 

"  Oh,  forgive  me  !  I  meant,  nothing  to  the  world  — 
nothing  to  other  people." 

She  was  silent. 

"  You  despise  me  !  "  said  Hogarth,  between  his  teeth. 

"  Oh,  no.     Heaven  knows,  no  !  " 

"  You  think  me  a  coward,  then  ?  " 

But  she  was  silent  still. 

"  I  have  to  think,  to  judge,  for  two,"  urged  the  man,  hotly 
and  justly  enough. 

"  It  is  not  that"  she  said. 

"  I  wish  I  'd  never  written  you  that  accursed  note  !  "  he 
began. 

But  Mildred  said,  "  Mother  is  coming."  She  had  grown 
a  little  pale.  Mrs.  Hobson  came  out  and  offered  her  some 
of  the  Life  Food. 

He  came  to  bid  her  good-by  when  the  lecture  on  the 
"  Legends  of  the  Sphinx  "  was  over.  It  was  late,  for  Mrs. 
Martin  B.  Hallowell  had  invited  some  of  our  best  people 
to  meet  him.  And  in  the  morning  he  took  an  early  train 

—  for  Omaha,  Mildred  believed. 

Mrs.  Snowe  was  present.  They  talked  of  Egyptology 
and  the  Jessops,  Mrs.  Hallowell,  and  the  Swedish  Move 
ment  Cure. 


MISS  MILDRED'S  FRIEND.  321 

Then  they  shook  hands,  and  he  closed  the  door  softly  — 
he  had  always  closed  it  more  softly  and  thoughtfully  than 
any  one  in  the  house.  And  then  Mrs.  Hobson  came  in,  and 
rolled  up  the  round  stand,  brought  the  ice-water,  wrung  out 
the  wet  towel,  set  the  milk  behind  the  Cologne  bottle,  and 
the  crackers  on  the  chair,  measured  off  the  Life  Food,  put 
the  chamomilla  within  reach,  and  fixed  the  fire. 
21 


NEBLITT. 


As  to  putting  of  it  into  print,  I  ain't  so  clear. 

I  '11  tell  you  the  story,  sir,  being  as  you  ask  me  for  it. 
But  as  has  regards  to  the  noospaper,  I  must  leave  it  to 
your  honor,  sir,  if  you  '11  excuse  the  word.  I  ain't  partial 
to  them  of  your  calling,  take  'em  as  a  family  lot.  I  won't 
go  so  far  as  to  say  they  might  n't  have  their  feelin's  like 
other  folks  ;  but  take  'em  as  a  family  lot,  I  'd  as  soon  turn 
my  heart  t'  other  side  out  to  a  sou'west  wind,  beggin'  your 
pardon,  sir.  There  was  a  man  down  our  way  once,  screwed 
a  poor  young  creetur's  affairs  out  of  her  —  she  waited  on 
him  at  table  to  the  hotel  —  and  by  and  by  out  it  come  all 
printed  in  a  religious  paper  up  to  New  York,  that  some  of 
her  folks  found  to  a  reading-room  and  told  her  of  it  —  like 
to  die  of  shame  and  temper.  The  young  woman's  name 
was  Soosan.  But  the  young  woman  into  the  story,  he 
called  her  Puella  Ann. 

Howsomever,  I  '11  lay  no  obligations  on  you,  sir,  in  p'int 
of  what  I  have  to  tell,  beyond  leaving  of  it  to  your  honor. 
Mebbe  there  might  some  poor  chap  take  heart  from  it  if  so 
be  he  read  the  noospaper.  Being  an  unedicated  man  my 
self  I  can't  judge.  Which  will  explain  to  you  what  I 
mean  by  leaving  of  it  to  your  honor. 

The  first  time  I  saw  Her  was  the  thirteenth  of  July  be 
fore  last,  at  five  minutes  to  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

But  before  I  get  onto  that  I  'd  ought  to  explain  how  I 
come  to  be  that  as  it  would  have  been  anyways  proper  or 
pretty  for  Her  to  take  notice  of. 


NEBLITT.  323 

I  suppose  now,  you  read  the  noospaper  after  you  've 
wrote  it,  don't  you  ?  Because.  In  case  you  do,  you  '11  not 
be  so  ignorant,  sir,  as  some  is.  We  had  some  summer-folks 
here  this  season  that  went  into  Charles  Henry's  grocery 
and  asked  what  Club  it  was.  One  of  them  she  thought  it 
was  Dress  Reform  ;  I  did  n't  so  much  blame  her,  consid- 
erin'  that  it  was  she  'd  have  ben  a  pretty  serious  case  her 
self,  if  you  considered  the  kivering  on  her  arms  and  neck, 
sir.  Another  one  he  asked  if  it  was  a  Radical  Club.  But 
I  don't  rightly  know  what  he  meant  by  that.  He  was  the 
one  that  hired  Charles  Henry's  boat  so  much  to  fish  on 
Sunday  mornin's.  Charles  Henry  asked  him  fifty-two  cents 
an  hour.  But  on  week-days  it  was  forty-eight. 

I  'm  an  unedicated  man,  sir,  as  I  told  you,  and  I  can't 
talk  as  clever  as  some  can  ;  but  I  can  think  as  well  as  any 
body.  I  was  setting  here  this  morning  and  thinking,  just 
before  you  come  along,  about  this  new  race  we  've  got  into 
New  England  these  last  two  years.  It  don't  always  seem 
to  me  as  if  folks  had  got  it  into  their  heads  yet  what  it 
means,  sir,  to  have  a  new  race  of  men  thrown  onto  society 
like  we  are.  There 's  all  sorts  of  men,  you  know.  There  's 
black  men,  and  white  men,  and  Yankees,  and  pious  men, 
and  Dutch  and  Irish,  and  those ;  and  there 's  blacklegs,  and 
Sunday  schools  sooperiritendents,  and  tramps,  and  sots,  and 
insurance  men,  and  men  that  play  the  planner ;  and  all 
sorts.  And  then  there  's  Reformed  men. 

You  '11  remember,  mebbe,  what  it  has  said  in  the  noos 
paper,  off  and  on  of  late,  about  us  ?  Should  be  glad  to 
have  you  step  in,  I  'm  sure,  some  evening,  to  a  lecture,  if 
you  felt  inclined.  It 's  over  Charles  Henry's  grocery,  one 
flight  up  —  ours  is.  I 'm  second  Vice-President.  There 's  a 
matter  of  two  hundred  members  or  so,  in  our  Club.  We  've 
ben  organized  two  years.  Hey  ?  Not  more  than  ten  of  us 
has  broke  in  all  that  time,  sir.  We  was  mostly  pretty  hard 
drinkers,  too,  to  the  start.  I  'm  not  wishing  to  be  on- 


324  NEBLITT. 

charitable,  but  I  think  it 's  partly  owing  to  the  hats.  It 's 
dirty  work  —  hat  factories.  I  suppose  it 's  in  the  nature  of 
felt  to  be  pulpy.  And  it 's  hot  in  the  ironin'-room,  and  you 
look  so  black,  a  walking  home,  and  other  folks  look  so 
clean.  It  makes  you  kind  of  down.  And  they  hain't  paid 
us  very  reg'lar  since  the  Treasurer  eloped  with  the  assets, 
So  you  run  in  debt. 

Wife  ?  No,  I  haven't  got  a  wife.  I  'd  rather  not  talk 
about  my  wife.  She  's  dead.  She  died  in  Pennsylvany.  I 
lived  in  Pennsylvany  once,  before  I  come  here.  I  have  n't 
lived  in  this  place  not  more  than  going  on  four  year.  I  was 
a  railroad  man.  I  drove  an  engine  one  spell.  I  drove  it 
off  a  broken  bridge  one  night.  We  had  four  hundred  and 
fifty  passengers  aboard.  We  didn't  lose  but  twenty-two. 
But  it  was  the  first  time  the  Company  suspicioned  that  I 
was  a  drinking  man.  I  was  young  then.  I  was  just  court 
ing  my  wife.  She  felt  bad  when  they  turned  me  off. 

There  's  one  thing  I  don't  like  to  hear  a  man  do  :  I  don't 
like  to  hear  him  set  down  and  brag  of  his  sins.  I  've  heerd ' 
that  plenty  in  temperance  meetin's  and  revivals,  and  all 
sorts  of  caucusin'.  I  'm  sick  of  it.  I  've  seen  men  stand 
up  and  take  the  ondecent  part  of  their  history  and  hold  it 
up  before  an  audience,  and  pet  it  and  hug  it  as  if  it  was 
something  that  set  'em  up  a  peg  or  two  above  other  folks. 
And  I  Ve  seen  good  people  set  and  cheer  'em  on  as  if  it 
was  a  polite  sort  of  thing  to  do.  I  ain't  that  kind,  myself. 

I'll  tell  you,  sir,  as  short  as  possible,  how  it  was.  If 
you  '11  excuse  me  for  say  in'  it,  I  was  a  pretty  bad  man.  1 
was  a  rum-soaked,  rascally  man.  I  was  a  Godless,  scoffin', 
desperate  man.  That 's  the  kind  I  was.  I  had  some  boys, 
but  they  died.  I  'm  glad^  on  't.  They  'd  have  been  like  theii 
father,  poor  little  devils.  I  'm  glad  my  boys  are  dead. 

There  was  one  little  girl,  we  had,  but  you  see  I  —  well,  I 
left  home.  I  left  my  wife.  It 's  seventeen  years  since  I 
deserted  her.  She  died  after  a  while,  so  I  've  heerd  tell. 


NEBLITT.  325 

The  little  girl,  she  was  two  year  old  when  I  left ;  but  I 
never  kept  no  trace  of  her.  It 's  easy  to  lose  girls,  because 
of  their  taking  of  his  name  when  they  get  married. 

It  was  five  minutes  to  four,  as  I  tell  you,  the  afternoon  I 
saw  Her.  No,  sir,  I  'm  not  likely  to  forget.  I  'd  come  out 
of  the  pressing-room  and  run  acrost  to  Jobbs's  there,  to  get 
a  drink.  I  met  her  on  the  way  back.  She  was  coming  along 
just  there  by  them  spruces.  I  'd  never  seen  her  before. 
She  was  dressed  in  black  ;  a  little  creetur.  She  held  a 
young  un  by  the  hand.  It  was  a  little  girl.  The  young  un 
did  n't  notice  me,  but  as  I  come  reeling  by  the  lady  lifted 
up  her  eyes  and  looked  at  me. 

It 's  often  bothered  me  to  make  out,  sir,  I  'm  free  to  own, 
what  it  is  about  a  lady  born  that  ain't  like  other  women. 
This  one  was  something  like  the  summer-folks,  and  then 
again  she  was  n't  like  the  summer-folks.  There  's  chaps  that 
works  beside  me  in  the  dryin'  room,  their  wives  wears  finer 
clothes  a  sight  than  she  did.  She  was  dressed  as  plain,  sir, 
as  plain  as  a  chip-bird  on  a  June  day,  and  she  had  a  wid- 
der's  veil  about  her.  She  had  eyes,  sir,  about  the  color  of 
the  veil.  I  remember  thinking  in  a  muddled  sort  of  way 
—  for  I  was  n't  so  far  gone  as  might  have  been  —  as  how 
her  eyes  had  gone  into  mourning,  like  her  clothes.  They 
had  that  look  about  'em. 

There's  one  of  our  men — his  name  is  Amram  Peter- 
weigh,  we  call  him  Ram  —  he  stood  to  the  window  when 
I'd  got  back  into  the  factory  that  day,  a-looking  out.  Says 
I:- 

"  Ram,  who  is  she  ?  "  says  I,  for  I  went  and  stood  along 
side  of  him  to  watch  her. 

"  The  devil  knows  !  "  says  Ram.  Ram  was  a  sulky  fel 
low  at  his  best. 

It  is  difficult  to  explain,  sir,  the  feelings  that  a  man  will 
have,  and  how  they  come  and  go,  —  I  think,  don't  you  ?  If 
he  'd  sent  all  the  women  of  New  Hampshire  to  the  devil,  I 


326  NEBLITT. 

should  n't  have  felt  hurt  about  it.  Women  did  n't  make  no 
odds  to  me.  But  when  he  spoke  up  onrespectful  of  that 
little  strange  creetur,  I  was  that  riled  I  could  have  knocked 
him  down,  sir. 

Mebbe  I  may  have  spoke  a  little  sharp  to  Ram ;  I  can't 
exactly  say  how  that  was.  He  give  me  a  look  and  walks 
off.  The  men,  they  said  I  called  him  a  pretty  hard  name, 
which  I  was  in  no  state,  sir,  to  remember  of.  Ram 's  a  man 
that  nusses  a  grudge. 

Next  day  he  comes  up  and  says  in  this  way,  sudden  :  — 

"  She  's  a  school-ma'am." 

"  Who  ?  "  says  I,  for  I  was  n't  thinking  of  Her  at  the 
time. 

"  The  little  widder,"  says  he. 

But  I  said  I  'd  never  seen  a  school-ma'am  complected 
like  her. 

"  She  keeps  a  Kind  o'  Garden,"  said  Ram. 

"  Does  she  hoe  her  own  potatoes  ?  "  says  I. 

What  I  intended,  sir,  was  to  be  severe  and  sarcastikle  on 
Ram.  For  her  little  glove  was  off  that  day  beside  the 
spruces,  and  I  see  her  hand,  and  the  size  of  it,  and  the  color 
white  enough  to  blind  a  sober  man,  let  alone  a  drunk. 

"  I  can't  say  whether  it 's  District  or  Grammar  or  Graded, 
and  it  can't  be  High  on  account  of  the  lowness  of  the  young 
uns,"  said  Ram;  "but  it's  a  new  fashioned  sort  o'  school. 
They  call  it  Kind  o'  Gardenin.  I  suppose  they  let  the 
young  uns  run  to  grass,"  says  Ram. 

Now,  sir,  it  was  just  that  living  minute  that  a  chap  come 
up.  His  name  was  Jones  ;  but  he  was  dangerous  in  his 
cups,  drawed  revolvers,  and  so  on,  and  we  called  him  Cos 
set.  Cosset,  he  come  up  —  for  he  'd  been  reformed  going 
on  eight  days,  —  and  asked  me  arid  Ram  to  sign.  Nobody  'd 
asked  me  to  sign  for  going  on  a  month  or  so.  Mebbe  if  I 
had  n't  kicked  the  last  man  as  tried  it  down  the  elevator,  — 
but  he  only  fell  a  piece  and  did  n't  limp  a  week,  —  they 
might,  sir. 


KEBLITT.  327 

"  You  won't  last  more  'n  two  or  three  weeks,  Cosset," 
said  Ram,  kiiid  of  tenderly,  as  if  he  'd  taken  a  sight  of  pains 
to  say  the  most  oncouragin'  thing  in  the  Dictionary. 

I  remember  plain  enough  how  Cosset  looked. 

"  I  don't  think,"  says  he,  "  one  wicked  wretch  had  — 
ought  —  to  talk  to  another  one  like  that,  Ram,"  says  he. 
"  I  hain't  been  sober  eight  days  steady  before  sence  I  was 
sixteen  year  old,"  says  Cosset,  looking  all  around  the  mill, 
kind  of  strange.  "  A  lady,  she  asked  me  to  sign,"  says 
Cosset.  "  I  moved  some  books  for  her  of  a  Saturday  night. 
She  's  a  stranger  to  town.  She  's  a  little  widder,  and  keeps 
a  Kind  o'  Garden  in  her  front  parlor." 

Can't  say  what  come  over  me,  sir,  to  do  it,  —  whether  it 
was  the  joke  of  seeing  Cosset  sober,  or  mebbe  from  what 
Ram  and  me  'd  been  saying,  and  the  kind  of  gentle  feelin', 
sir,  it  gives  a  man  to  talk  about  a  lady,  —  but  I  says  :  — 

"  Curse  it,  Ram,  let 's  sign !  " 

Ever  been  a  drinkin'  man  yourself  ?  No  ?  Well,  then 
you  could  n't  be  looked  to  understand.  Most  folks  don't 
seem  to  understand.  I  've  seen  'em  sit  down  and  talk  to 
a  chap,  —  parsons  and  women  and  such,  —  and  tell  him  how 
wicked  it  was ;  and  I  Ve  seen  him  set  and  look  at  'em,  — 
every  vein  on  fire,  and  them  so  cool.  It 's  much  like 
fastenin'  onto  a  man  a-fightin'  with  a  typhis  fever,  and 
tellin'  of  him  how  sinful  he  was  to  have  the  fever,  sir. 
Then  again  it 's  like  pitchin'  onto  a  poor  devil  a-drownin' 
in  the  river,  and  settin'  up  in  your  boat  a-hollerin'  to  tell 
him  how  careless  it  was  in  him  to  have  fell  in. 

I  'in  not  denying  the  wickedness,  sir,  but  think  of  the 
manners  of  it ! 

Sir,  I  stuck  ten  days.  I  did,  upon  my  honor ;  I  stuck 
ten  days  before  I  broke.  Mebbe  you  won't  understand  our 
ways  of  speech.  I  mean  to  say,  I  kept  my  pledge  ten  days 
before  I  touched  a  mortal  drop.  I  don't  think  there  's  any 


328  NEBLITT. 

other  ten  days  in  my  whole  life  1 11  remember  so  long  as 
I  shall  them  ten.  But  if  you  was  n't  a  drinkin'  man  your 
self,  you  could  n't  understand. 

She  spoke  to  me  one  day.  It  was  the  second  day.  She  'd 
been  in  to  give  us  a  chromo  of  her'n,  that  the  janitor  he 
hung  bottom  upwards  most  gratefully,  for  it  was  sky-terrier 
pups,  —  I  don't  know  's  I  blame  him,  they  look  so  derned 
similar  to  both  ends,  sir,  —  and  I  was  hangin'  round  when 
she  come  out. 

She  stopped  a  spell  upon  the  steps,  and  says  she  to  the 
janitor,  says  she  :  — 

"  Will  you  introduce  Mr.  Neblitt  to  me  ? "  says  she. 
That's  my  name,  sir,  Neblitt.  Dell  Neblitt.  But  when 
she  called  me  Mr.  Neblitt  I  was  stuck.  I  could  n't  tell 
you  when  anybody  'd  Mistered  me  before.  It  was  a  good 
while.  It  must  have  been  as  far  back  as  when  I  was  court 
ing  my  wife.  It  was  mostly  Neb,  and  Dell,  and  Whiskey 
Neb,  and  Devil  Neblitt,  not  to  mention  wuss. 

"  Mr.  Neblitt,"  says  she,  and  she  drawed  aside  her  long 
black  veil  to  look  at  me,  "  I  'm  glad  to  hear  good  news  of 
you,"  says  she.  "  A  reformed  man's  life  is  a  noble  life," 
she  says. 

Sir,  those  was  the  very  words.  A  noble  life.  She  said 
a  noble  life.  I  set  and  looked  after  her  when  she  'd  gone. 
I  did  n't  answer  her  more  than  to  lift  my  hat  and  stand  and 
hold  it.  I  could  n't  seem  to  put  it  on.  If  she  'd  said  as 
much  to  Bealzebob  himself,  I  don't  think  it  would  take  him 
more  onexpected. 

Me  —  me  a  raskill,  rum-sodden — good-for-nothing  — 
that  cared  a  darn  for  nobody,  and  nobody  cared  a  darn  for 
him  —  me  —  a  NOBLE  LIFE  ! 

I  hain't  got  used  to  it,  exactly,  yet.  Sometimes  it  comes 
all  over  me. 

I  don't  suppose  I  'd  have  stuck  till  Saturday  but  for  that. 
Bein'  as  it  was,  I  stuck  ten  honorable  days,  square  days, 


NEBLITT.  329 

by  the  First  Methodist  clock,  from  four  o'clock  to  four 
o'clock,  sir,  of  an  afternoon. 

If  you  was  to  ask  me  what  injuced  me  to  step  into 
Jobbs's  with  Earn  at  three  minutes  after  four,  I  could  n't 
explain  it  to  you.  And  if  you  was  to  ask  why  I  was  drunk 
as  Lucifer  before  the  Methodist  clock  struck  five,  I  could  n't 
tell  you.  Seems  as  if  I  should  die,  sir.  Seems  as  if  Hell 
etarnal  could  n't  be  wuss  than  to  stick  another  hour.  I 
drank  and  I  drank  and  I  drank.  I  kept  at  it,  sir,  a  matter 
of  some  three  weeks,  that  spell.  I  heerd  the  boys  about 
the  club-room,  sayin' :  — 

"  He 's  voyilated  his  pledge,  and  gone  upon  a  tear." 

And  one  day  I  met  Her  acrost  the  road.  But  I  looked 
upon  the  ground.  It's  cur'ous  how  I  happened  to  think 
on 't  at  the  time,  but  there  was  a  passage  of  Bible  come  into 
my  head  —  I  used  to  hear  my  wife  read  it  quarter  days 
when  she  had  n't  nothin'  to  pay  the  rent,  and  a  few  such 
times  ;  it  went  like  this  :  — 

"  But  he  ....  standing  afar  off,  darst  not  lift  up  so 
much  as  his  eyes  toward  Heaven." 

Well  you  see,  when  I  come  out  o'  that,  I  vowed  I  'd 
never  sign  again,  for  Heaven  nor  Hell,  sir.  And  no  more 
I  'd  never  have,  for  either  of  them  parties. 

It  was  her  being  so  little,  partly,  I  think,  sir,  and  so 
white ;  and  if  she  'd  been  rich  we  should  n't  have  set  so 
much  by  her.  But  for  all  she  worked  so  steady  at  that  Kind 
o'  Gardenin,  she  seemed  to  be  most  as  poor  as  some  of  us. 

It  was  her  bein'  so  near  like  us,  and  yet  so  terrible  onlike, 
that  give  us  the  feeling  we  had  towards  her.  She  come 
from  Ohio.  She  'd  seen  what  you  may  call  temperance 
work,  I  take  it.  She  'd  a  mite  got  over  the  nateral  scar  of 
women  folks  at  a  drinking  man,  may  be.  She  treated  us 
like  human  bein's. 

A  cur'ous  thing  happened  along  that  time.  Cosset  come 
up  to  me  one  day  and  says  he :  "  You  're  invited  up  to  see 


330  NEBLITT. 

Her,"  says  he ;  "  you  're  invited  with  me  and  my  wife  and 
one  or  two,  up  to  spend  the  evening,"  says  Cosset. 

"  I  think  I  see  you  !  "  says  Ram. 

"  I  think  I  see  myself !  "  says  I. 

"I'd  go,  Neb,  if  I  was  you,"  said  Cosset.  "She'll  — 
she  '11  think  you  're  —  why  she  '11  think  you  're  stuck  up  if 
you  don't ! " 

So  I  went.     For  I  did  n't  like  to  hurt  her  feelin's. 

I  've  sometimes  set  and  thought,  sir,  how  a  chap  would 
feel  that  had  climbed  out  of  the  bad  place  by  some  mistake 
or  nuther  and  got  adrift  in  t'  other.  Always  thought  I  knew 
jest  how  he  'd  feel  sence  that  night. 

I  'd  never  been  into  a  lady's  house  before  that  I  remember 
of.  Only  once  I  helped  Pudge's  Express  carry  a  sewing- 
machine  into  Mrs.  Hemen way's  —  he  's  the  Corporation, 
Hemenway  —  but  Mrs.  Hemenway  did  n't  remember  me  to 
keep  up  the  acquaintance  afterward. 

Sir,  she  asked  us  into  her  parlor  —  like  gentlemen. 
There  was  pictures  in  the  parlor,  and  a  sight  of  books.  You 
never  see  such  a  sight  of  books.  And  a  fire  in  the  open 
grate,  for  it  was  sort  of  chilly.  And  one  or  two  statooes  in 
the  corners.  But  the  carpet  was  most  wore,  and  the  sofy 
I  see  was  patched.  She  had  a  little  girl  with  her  and  I  see 
it  was  her  own  little  girl.  Pretty  soon  a  young  woman 
come  in  and  took  the  child  to  bed.  It  was  her  servant  girl. 
I  liked  her  looks. 

We  hated  to  let  the  young  one  go.  She  took  a  shine 
to  Mrs.  Cosset,  —  by  which  I  should  say  Mrs.  Jones,  —  and 
the  boys  they  set  and  laughed  to  see  her.  But  the  young 
woman  told  her  to  bid  us  all  good-night,  and  so  she  did. 
She  come  up  to  me  and  give  me  her  little  hand.  I  can't 
tell  you  when  I  'd  had  holt  of  a  little  girl's  hand  before.  It 
made  me  kind  of  down.  I  was  the  only  chap  there  that  night 
that  had  broke.  I  did  n't  see  what  she  'd  asked  me  for. 

So  then  she  told  us  of  the  pictures,  and  we  played  some 


NEBLITT.  331 

games,  and  had  some  cake  and  raspberry  shrub  that  the 
young  woman  brought,  and  she  played  the  planner  to  us 
(for  she  had  a  planner),  and  we  sung  a  spell ;  and  then  she 
read  us  a  little  story  for  a  spell.  It  was  a  Christmas  story, 
with  something  of  a  cricket  in  it,  and  a  tea-kettle,  and  a 
man's  wife  that  he  thought  she  took  a  shine  to  another 
feller  but  she  had  n't.  And  I  sat  by  the  fire,  for  I  could 
n't  sing.  And  I  covered  up  my  face  and  thought,  and 
thought. 

I  thought  partly,  sir,  of  her  onlikeness  and  how  far  she 
was  above  us,  though  so  poor  and  Kind  o'  Gardenin'  for  a 
livin'.  And  I  thought  what  another  spere  it  was,  too,  to  the 
spere  we  lived  in  ;  how  clean  it  was,  sir,  and  sheltered  in. 
And  I  thought,  seems  to  me  if  I  could  set  long  enough  in  a 
room  like  this,  and  see  her  passin'  in  and  out,  and  hear  her 
speaking  to  her  little  girl,  I  thought  if  I  could  stay  awhile 
where  I  could  so  much  as  see  her  shadder  on  the  floor,  that 
may  be  I  could  ondertake  to  be  a  better  man. 

And  by  and  by  we  all  went  home  (for  we  'd  had  a  first- 
rate  time),  but  when  the  young  woman  had  let  us  all  out 
and  drawed  the  bolt,  I  fell  behind  the  rest  a  spell.  I  stood 
out  by  the  fence  in  the  dark.  Cosset  walked  on  with  his 
wife.  And  one  of  the  boys  he  had  his  daughter  with  him. 
And  two  they  were  together,  for  they  were  very  thick.  So 
I  was  to  myself,  and  I  stood  to  think.  The  young  woman 
come  to  the  window  and  drawed  the  shades.  She  was  a 
quiet-looking  young  woman,  with  a  modest  way.  And  then 
acrost  the  shades  I  saw  Her  pass,  the  shadder  of  her  to  and 
fro.  But  all  I  could  seem  to  think  about  her  was,  Heaven 
bless  her  !  And  after  that  I  turned  away. 

But  I  did  n't  sign  again  till  next  week.  I  wanted  to  think 
it  over.  If  I  signed  again  I  meant  to  stick.  So  next  week 
I  just  went  up  one  day  and  put  my  name  down,  and  Cosset 
he  carried  the  book  up  to  her  to  show  it  where  it  was. 

I  kep  a  copy  of  that  pledge  to  home  ;  like  this.     Here  's 


332  NEBLITT. 

the  way  it  stood  on  the  books  to  the  Club  room,  you  know : 
"  I  hereby  pledge  myself  with  the  help  of  God  not  to  buy 
nor  sell  nor  drink  intoxicating  liquors  as  beverages." 

Here  's  the  way  my  copy  went  that  I  took  home  :  — 

"  I,  Dell  Neblitt,  raskill,  hereby  pledge  myself  with  the 
help  of  Her  and  God,  to  stick  it  out,  so  help  me  them  two  ! 
Till  Death  us  do  part.  Amen." 

But  I  never  showed  that  copy  to  the  boys. 

Now  I  '11  tell  you  two  facts.  In  order  to  explain  myself  I 
must  tell  you  these  two  facts.  I  Ve  heerd  folks  doubt  'em 
—  as  there  's  always  folks  to  doubt  the  druggin'  stories,  and 
such  like.  They  need  n't.  They  're  true.  This  is  the  first 
one:  — 

It  was  after  I  'd  stuck  awhile,  —  quite  a  spell  as  I  remem 
ber,  —  and  one  day  me  and  Ram  Peterweigh  were  histing 
empty  cases  onto  the  elevator,  and  we  got  to  skylarking. 
And  the  men  stood  by  to  see,  and  bet  on  us  accordin'  to 
their  taste,  for  Ram  was  the  heftiest,  but  I  'm  a  wiry  man 
into  the  muscle.  But  Ram  he  got  the  better  of  me  that 
time,  and  in  the  scuffle,  first  I  knew  he  'd  rubbed  my  face 
all  over  with  something  wet.  Sir,  it  was  rum  ! 

Whysoever  I  did  not  go  under  with  the  smack  of  it  upon 
my  lips,  sir,  I  cannot  tell  you.  And  Ram  stood  by  to  see. 
And  all  the  boys.  But  Cosset  said  it  was  too  derned  bad. 
And  one  of  our  men,  a  presser,  that  was  a  steady  fellow, 
and  got  converted  once  or  twice  in  the  Methodist  meetin', 
so  he  used  to  say,  but  had  sorter  got  out  o'  the  habit  of  it  of 
late  years  —  he  comes  up  to  me  and  says  :  — 

"  Here  Neb,"  says  he,  "  come  away.  Let  me  walk  home 
with  you  a  spell,"  says  he.  But  he  spoke  quite  low.  And 
they  looked  to  see  me  go  to  Jobbs's,  going  by.  But  when 
we  got  home,  for  I  was  all  of  a  ragin'  tremble  with  the 
anger  and  the  taste,  I  set  down  on  the  doorstep  of  my 
boarding-house  a  spell,  me  and  this  man  I  tell  you  of. 
And  it  was  a  sunny  day,  and  as  I  set  there  she  come  along 


NEBLITT.  333 

herself.  Somebody  'd  told  her,  for  she  was  out  walking 
with  her  little  girl.  But  she  come  up  to  me  and  held  out 
her  hand.  She  had  on  white  gloves.  She  held  out  her 
hand,  and  says  she  :  — 

"  You  're  a  brave  man,  Mr.  Neblitt."  says  she,  and  then 
she  went  her  ways,  and  the  little  girl  ran  on  before. 

Sir,  after  that  you  might  have  drownded  me  in  it.  I 
don't  believe  I  'd  have  swallowed  a  drop. 

Well,  after  that  I  held  out  considerable  of  a  while  ;  nigh 
upon  four  months,  and  I  went  to  the  Club  quite  reg'lar. 
We  elected  Cosset  President  that  quarter,  for  he  'd  never 
broke,  and  Hemenway  raised  his  wages  for  the  quality  of 
his  work  being  so  far  reformed,  as  you  might  say.  And 
there  come  along  a  chap  about  that  time,  a  drummer  for  a 
firm  that  sold  policemen's  outfits,  and  it  was  so  orderly 
along  our  way  he  got  quite  discouraged  and  low  in  his 
mind.  He  said  if  these  Reform  Clubs  went  on  they  'd 
spoil  the  billy  business. 

May  be  you  saw  that  in  the  noospaper  yourself  a  spell 
after  ;  for  it  got  into  the  noospaper.  But  I  knew  the  chap 
that  said  it.  He  said  it  over  there  by  the  pump  in  the 
square.  It  was  Charles  Henry  he  said  it  to. 

Now  this  other  fact  I  spoke  to  you  about  has  to  do  with 
that  there  pump.  This  was  the  way  of  that :  — 

We  take  our  dinner  to  the  factory,  you  see  :  only  them 
that  has  wives  and  hot  coffee  to  home,  unless  the  pail  leaks 
or  he  can  support  a  separation  from  her  from  dawn  to  dark 
without  much  suffering,  sir,  then  he  eats  with  the  rest  of 
us  baches  and  widderers.  For  a  factory  boarding-house, 
and  a  mile  and  a  quarter  to  do  it  come  winters,  and  your 
ontire  nooning  but  three  quarters,  and  you  wet  and  hot 
from  the  steaming-room  in  the  raw  wind,  it  ain't  a  seducin' 
type  of  dinner-party.  That 's  one  way,  if  you  '11  take  the 
trouble  to  consider,  sir,  how  it  comes  to  be  so  easy  to  run 
over  to  Jobbs's. 


334  NEBLITT. 

Now  you  see  we  get  our  water  from  the  purnp  I  tell  you 
of.  Do  you  see  that  there  little  dipper  hangin'  by  a  chain 
onto  the  nozzle  ?  A  tin  dipper  with  a  rusty  iron  chain, 
rasping  up  against  the  shoulder  of  the  pump  when  the  wind 
is  up  like  it  is  to-day.  See  it  ? 

That 's  the  very  dipper.  One  day  I  come  out  to  get  a 
drink.  It  was  a  December  day.  It  was  pretty  cold,  and  the 
snow  blew.  I  had  n't  had  much  dinner.  The  johnny-cake 
was  heavy,  and  salt  by  mistake  into  the  gingerbread  ain't 
so  fillin'  or  so  stayin',  sir,  as  sugar.  And  I  'd  give  the 
corned  beef,  what  there  was  on 't,  to  .a  starvin'  pup  that 
come  rubbing  himself  against  me.  My  wife  she  had  the 
greatest  taking  for  a  pup.  It  always  remembers  me  of  her 
to  see  one  round.  She  got  a  striped  yellow  creetur  for  the 
baby  once,  —  which  was  the  little  girl  I  spoke  about,  —  that 
was  drownded  from  having  too  many  fits  in  the  front  entry. 
Well,  there.  It  was  the  dog  that  had  the  fits,  you  under 
stand.  So  I  come  out  to  get  a  drink  and  to  rinse  the  dip 
per.  But  it  was  so  cold  I  did  n't  rinse  it,  and  I  noticed  of 
it  that  it  was  very  wet  about  the  rim.  But  I  filled  it  up 
and  drank ! 

I  told  you,  did  n't  I,  the  rim  of  that  dipper  was  wet  ?  It 
had  n't  froze.  Sir,  THAT  was  rum. 

It  was,  upon  my  honor  as  a  poor  devil,  that  wouldn't 
bely  another,  not  for  no  purpose.  Upon  my  honor  as  a 
reformed  man  —  and  I  Ve  got  no  other  honor,  sir,  in  this 
world  now,  to  swear  by,  —  he  'd  smeared  the  lips  of  that 
there  dipper  with  it  a  purpose  to  draw  me  down  to  break. 
I  could  n't  lay  it  to  him,  not  to  swear  to  it,  but  I  could  n't 
believe  there  was  another  chap  in  Hemenway's  would  have 
did  it.  I  hoped  to  God  there  was  n't. 

I  don't  know  as  much  as  most  folk  seem  to  know  about 
the  t'other  world,  sir.  Never  having  got  religion,  I  did  n't 
feel  no  call  to  know.  It  was  a  kind  of  fancy  religion,  too, 
I  was  brought  up  to.  I  was  brought  up  a  Universal.  The 


NEBLITT.  335 

Universals,  you  know,  don't  take  no  stock  in  damnation. 
May  be  they  're  right,  may  be  they  're  wrong ;  can't  say ; 
but  I  was  pious  myself  so  far  as  that,  this  time  I  speak 
of,  that  /  did  n't  take  stock  in  damnation  neither.  But  I 
thought  it  over  a  sight  then  and  after  then,  and  I  got  so 
far  as  this  :  — 

If  there  ain't  a  hell  for  a  creetur  that  will  do  for  another 
what  that  creetur  did  for  me  that  day,  sir,  there 'd  ought  to 
be  !  If  there  ain't  a  punishment  for  deeds  like  them  deeds, 
there 'd  better  be.  I'm  clear  on  that.  If  I'd  been  God 
Almighty,  and  had  n't  never  opened  one  before,  I  'm  clear 
I  'd  have  opened  one  the  hour  that  I  looked  down  and  see 
Ram  Peterweigh  standing  by  the  pump  that  freezing  day, 
rubbing  that  there  rum  acrost  that  there  dipper  to  draw 
a  strugglin,'  sinful,  rum-soaked,  reformin'  man  like  I  was 
down  to  break ! 

That  was  along  the  first  of  December.  I  don't  remember 
much  that  happened  after  that,  till  to-wards  Christmas  time. 
I  remember  tasting  of  it  on  the  brim  and  the  scorch  of  it 
upon  my  tongue,  and  I  remember  standin'  stock-still  there 
in  the  snow  beside  the  pump  and  striking  my  two  hands  to 
gether.  I  think  I  must  have  spoke  aloud.  But  no  one  was 
nigh  me.  It  had  begun  to  snow  and  had  a  dreary  look.  I 
can  remember  that  I  wished  I  had  a  wife  or  a  bowl  of  soup 
or  something.  Or  anywhere  to  go  where  folks  would  care 
for  me  to  keep  me  to  home  in  a  warm  place  that  day.  I 
struck  my  two  hands  together,  and  says  I,  standin'  there 
alone,  says  I :  — 

"  O  my  God  !  I  'm  a  lost  man  this  time  !  "  And  then  I 
began  to  walk  to-wards  the  factory,  and  can  remember  that 
I  wondered  to  myself  if  God  Etarnal  cared  enough  for  me 
to  help  me  get  by  Jobbs's. 

And  I  can  remember  making  little  circles  in  the  drifting 
snow  to  get  by.  And  how  I  narrowed  in  an;d  narrowed  in. 
And  how  I  struck  out  again,  and  struggled  to-wards  the  fac- 


336  NEBLITT. 

tory.  But  all  I  could  do  I  kept  a  narrowing  —  narrowing 
in.  The  dog  I  gave  the  corned  beef  to,  he  followed  me. 
He  kept  between  me  and  Jobbs's  a  long  time,  that  dog  did. 
"When  I  went  nigh  he  'd  growl.  Seems  as  if  he  knew.  I 
can  remember  of  giving  him  a  kick,  and  that  he  yelped  and 
got  behind  me.  But  nobody  else  seemed  to  care,  only  the 
dog  ;  neither  the  boys  nor  God,  nor  any  of  'em,  for  they 
did  n't  understand  the  case,  perhaps ;  and  so  I  kept  a  nar- 
rowin'  in.  Then  first  I  knew  it  was  as  if  some  onseen  cree- 
tur  come  behind  me  through  the  snow  and  pushed  me  in. 

I  started,  and  I  tried  to  run  —  I  tried  to  run  past  the 
door.  I  started  three  times.  I  could  n't  get  past.  I  went 
into  Jobbs's.  The  dog  he  come  and  curled  upon  the  steps 
all  crinkled  up.  But  I  stepped  over  him,  for  I  thought  I 
wouldn't  kick  him  twice.  It  was  curious  how  I  had  an 
idea  come  to  me  my  wife  would  n't  feel  quite  so  bad  about 
it  if  I  did  n't  kick  him.  I  could  n't  get  by,  sir.  I  had  to  go. 
But  you  could  n't  understand.  I  would  n't  try,  if  I  was  you. 
I  went  to  Jobbs's. 

From  then  till  Christmas  week  I  can't  remember  much 
to  tell  you  of.  From  having  stuck  so  long  I  took  it  out 
most  thorough.  Most  folks  don't  seem  to  remember  of  a 
drinking-man,  leastways  a  habitual,  that  he 's  a  diseased  and 
pisoned  creetur,  that  wants  to  be  treated  for  pison  and  dis 
ease.  Treat  him  for  sin  and  wickedness,  for  deviltry  and 
damnation,  if  you  feel  a  call ;  but  wait  a  spell.  What  the 
creetur  needs  is  coffee  and  beefsteak,  a  doctor,  may  be, 
medicine,  a  fire,  and  a  place  to  set  by  it,  a  home  and  folks 
within  it,  eyes  to  watch  him,  sir,  that  cares  enough  to  cry 
for  him,  and  hands  to  hold  him  that  ain't  loath  to  touch  on 
his'n ;  a  voice,  sir,  to  be  patient  to  him,  and  tender  of  him, 
as  mothers  is  to  babies,  or  wild  things  to  their  young ;  or  as 
them  that  have  got  religion  perfess  to  say  God  would  be 
patient  and  tender  of  his  own  accord  with  all  folks  if  he  got 


NEBLITT.  337 

the  chance.  Sympathy  before  sermons,  sir,  if  you're  set 
on  making  a  good  man  of  a  bad.  You  '11  remember  some 
clay  a  reformed  man  told  you  that.  May  be  it  will  serve 
you  in  good  stead. 

It  ain't  that  I  would  be  excusing  of  myself,  but  it 's  sim 
ple  justice  as  between  man  and  man,  to  remind  you  that  I 
hadn't  none  of  these  things  myself. 

Ever  been  into  a  factory  boarding-house  ?  Ever  been 
into  a  ^-factory  boarding-house  ? 

That  was  all  /had. 

Seems  to  me  it  must  have  snowed  pretty  much  all  that 
time,  as  I  remember.  There  was  a  kind  of  white  mist  be 
fore  my  eyes  wherever  I  come  or  went.  Once  or  twice  I 
thought  I  see  Her  through  it,  but  I  could  n't  tell.  Some 
times,  I  seemed  to  see  her  betwixt  me  and  the  glass.  She 
must  have  been  in  my  mind  quite  nateral,  a  good  deal,  in  a 
kind  of  crazy  way.  But  there  was  always  a  white  mist  be 
fore  her.  Call  it  snow.  Call  it  craze.  Take  your  choice, 
/don't  know. 

One  day  I  was  setting  on  Jobbs's  counter  —  the  candy 
arid  peanut  counter ;  it 's  cod-fish  and  postal  cards  the  t'other 
side  —  and  when  the  constabulary  come  he  keeps  a  trap 
door  to  the  rear  that  he  empties  it  into  the  river,  and  treats 
them  to  sweet  apples  all  around.  He 's  a  well-mannered 
chap,  Jobbs ;  but  the  sign  says,  "  W.  I  Goods  and  Gro 
ceries,"  in  pale  green  letters  on  a  butt'nut-colored  ground. 

I  was  setting  on  the  peanut*  counter,  and  at  once  I  come 
to.  A  man  will,  sometime,  that  sudden.  I  looked  up  and 
it  was  snowing.  It  was  snowing  very  hard.  The  shop  was 
full.  The  boys  was  all  around  the  store.  They  was  laugh 
ing  and  larking  like  to  split.  They  was  in  a  little  hollow 
circle,  this  way,  me  and  the  stove  over  against  'em.  I  sec 
in  a  minute  they  were  larking  at  me. 

The  tumbler  was  in  my  hand,  for  I  'd  drained  it  dry,  I 
know.  Ram  Peterweigh  was  there.  He  come  up  to  me 
22 


338  KEBLITT. 

and  asked  me  how  I  was.  Said  I  'd  given  them  a  most  on- 
common  entertainment.  I  can  remember  that  I  put  down 
the  tumbler,  for  I  felt  a  kind  of  sudden  soberness  and  fear, 
I  could  n't  tell  you  why.  I  can  remember  that  I  asked  him 
what  he  meant  before  he  says  :  — 

"  Why,  Neb,  you  Ve  been  drinking  to  Her  "  — 

"  WHAT  ? "  roars  I  and  over  that  glass  goes,  sir,  in  a 
thousand  shivers ;  but  it  was  cracked  before,  and  Jobbs  he 
knows  it,  too. 

Then  Ram  he  finished  his  sentence,  very  slow  :  — 

"  To  her  health,"  said  he ;  "  you  Ve  been  drinking  to  the 
little  widder  lady  quite  a  spell,"  says  Ram,  "  and  very  enter 
taining,  too,"  said  he. 

Sir,  there  ain't  no  words  for  it,  there  ain't  indeed.  All 
the  boys  stood  looking  on.  And  none  of  them  gainsaid  him. 
And  I  set  upon  the  counter  like  a  caged  creetur,  to  think  of 
what  I  'd  said.  But  it  was  gone,  sir,  gone  like  the  souls  of 
dead  folks  out  of  their  bodies.  There  's  a  man  we  read  of 
in  Bible  who  come  to  himself  and  was  a  most  onhappy 
cuss  ;  I  mean  him  that  arose  and  went  to  the  old  gentle 
man  that  ran  half-ways  to  meet  him.  But,  sir,  he  don't  know 
misery  when  he  sees  it,  nor  any  man  don't  that  has  n't  come 
to  himself  to  find  he  'd  took  the  name  he  honored  above  all 
others  on  the  earth  —  a  lady's  name  —  Her'n  —  on  lips  like 
his'n  —  in  such  a  place  —  such  a  place  —  such  men  —  he 
crazy  drunk  to  drag  the  shadder  of  the  thought  of  one  like 
her  down  through  that  —  and  not  to  know  what  his  cursed 
tongue  had  said  — 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  Ram ! "  says  I,  "  tell  me  what  it 
was  ! " 

But  Ram  puts  his  hands  in  his  pocket  and  walks  off.  He 
whistled  as  he  walked. 

I  must  have  been  lying  down  behind  the  counter,  grovel 
ing  there  ;  with  my  face  between  my  hands  ;  seemed  to  me 
I  could  never  lift  it  up  to  see  the  light  of  day  again ;  the 


NEBLITT.  339 

sun  that  shone  on  her,  the  air  she  breathed,  the  pure  white 
snow  she  trod  on  —  and  me  to  look  into  her  face  and  know 

when  at  once  the  door  opened  wide,  and  a  lady  come 

in. 

Sir,  it  was  Herself.  She  come  into  Jobbs's.  She  come 
after  me.  Me.  If  ever  Him  who  made  us  come  from 
Heaven  to  earth,  as  some  folks  say  He  did,  to  hunt  us  out, 
it  must  be  most  like  that  of  anything  I  know.  The  snow 
blew  in  with  her  when  she  come.  She  was  nigh  covered 
with  it  acrost  her  black  dress.  And  when  I  looked  up,  I 
saw  her  through  the  mist,  dead-white,  as  if  it  was  snowing 
even  in  Jobbs's,  soft  and  clean  upon  us  all. 

She  stood  a  minute,  for  I  think  she  'd  caught  what  we 
were  saying  ;  and  she  turned  a  deadly  color  first.  And  she 
looked  upon  us  all.  And  we  all  fell  silent,  sir,  and  Ram 
he  'd  shuffled  up  and  hung  his  head.  Jobbs  took  off  his  hat. 
But  I  lay  groveling  by  the  peanut  counter  on  the  ground. 
And  then  she  spoke. 

"  Is  Mr.  Neblitt  here  ?  "  says  she ;  "  I  've  come  to  find  him 
if  I  can.  I  want  him  to  leave  this  place.  It 's  no  place  for 
a  poor  man  that  had  begun  to  lead  a  better  life,"  says  she ; 
"  I  want  to  take  him  to  his  home."  But  still  I  lay  grovel 
ing  before  her,  for  I  darsent  look  her  in  the  holy  face.  Her 
color  had  come  back,  and  she  stood  among  us  looking  scared 
and  scarlet,  as  she  'd  fly. 

Then  one  of  the  boys  he  spoke  up  compassionate  and 
told  her  of  me ;  the  state  that  I  was  in,  and  the  conse 
quences  when  I  come  out  of  it,  and  that  I  had  no  wife  nor 
daughter  and  no  home  but  the  boarding-house  and  the  yel 
low  dog  as  had  hung  around  me  ever  since. 

"  It  is  a  hard  case,"  said  this  chap,  "  and  the  landlady 
she  don't  like  him,  nor  yet  the  dog.  Jobbs  feeds  the  dog." 

And  so  he  did,  I  '11  say  as  much  for  him.  And  he  was  so 
tickled,  for  he  thought  she  'd  come  to  talk  religion  to  him, 
that  he  dusted  off  a  chair  for  her,  and  asked  Ram  where 
was  his  manners,  hulking  in  her  way. 


840  NEBLITT. 

And  then,  as  I  lay  there,  she  looked  around  again  upon 
us  all  —  but  she  would  n't  take  the  chair  —  and  says  :  — 

"Is  there  any  one  here  who  will  help  me  take  this  poor 
man  to  a  place  where  he  can  be  properly  cared  for  ?  I 
will  find  the  place,"  said  she. 

So  the  chap  I  spoke  of  he  volunteered.  And  she  walked 
beside  us.  And  we  went  out  into  the  fresh,  falling  snow. 
And  the  yellow  dog  went  too.  But  she  patted  him  upon 
the  head. 

But  I  did  n't  understand  till  I  'd  got  there,  where  she  'd 
took  me  to.  I  '11  tell  you. 

It  is  a  living  fact.  It  is  true  as  Heaven.  It 's  just  as 
much  perplexing  and  mysterious  to  the  mind.  Sir,  she  took 
me  to  her  own  house  —  she  did  ;  that  little ' —  delicate  — 
white  —  and  me  so 's  I  was,  just  off  from  Jobbs's  floor. 

The  chap  I  spoke  of,  he  hung  round  and  hesitated  a 
spell  as  if  there  was  something  on  his  mind  he  'd  ought  in 
common  honesty  to  warn  her  of.  And  I  seemed  to  hear 
him  say :  — 

"  You  'd  ought  to  know,  marm,  the  state  he  's  in.  You  'd 
ought  to  onderstand  what  it  means.  It  means  a  case  of 
delirium  tre-min-jous  before  to-morrow  morning  on  your 
hands,  marm." 

"  Yes,"  she  says,  "  I  know.     I  understand." 

And  he  could  n't  stir  nor  change  her.  And  she  took  me 
in. 

But  I  reckon  she  sent  for  Cosset,  being  as  it  needed  a 
man  to  hold  me  for  a  day  or  two  ;  and  Mrs.  Cosset  she 
come  off  and  on  ;  and  the  young  woman  was  there.  Mostly 
I  remember  seeing  the  young  woman,  so  fur  's  I  remember 
of  it,  anyhow,  those  first  few  days.  She  took  a  sight  of 
pains  the  young  woman  did,  and  hung  around  me  and 
missed  me  up. 

Sir,  she  kept  me  for  three  mortal  weeks.  She  did,  may 
Heaven  bless  her,  true  as  you  and  me  are  standing  here  ag'in 


NEBLITT.  341 

this  fence,  she  kept  me,  crazy  and  disgraced,  and  onclean 
and  ravin'  —  she  kept  me  in  that  little  quiet  holy  house  of 
her'n  along  with  herself  and  the  young  woman,  and  the 
little  girl  till  I  was  over  it. 

She  sent  for  her  doctor  to  doctor  me.  But  when  I  won 
dered  how  I  was  to  pay  his  bill,  she  said  it  was  no  matter. 
She  brought  me  down  into  her  parlor  to  set  among  the 
pictures,  and  the  books,  against  the  sun,  before  the  fire. 
And  I  set  and  see  her  passing  in  and  out  as  once  I  'd 
thought  of.  And  I  watched  her  shadder  on  the  floor. 
And  I  hea»d  her  voice  a  hushing  to  her  little  girl.  And 
I  knew  that  I  was  safe  and  sheltered  in.  And  I  set  a  storin' 
strength  to  ondertake  to  be  a  better  man. 

But  she  did  n't  talk  to  me,  not  a  great  deal  to  sarmonize, 
only  to  amuse  me,  till  I  got  able  to  be  out.  And  first  she 
trusted  me  to  saw  some  wood.  And  then  I  carried  some 
apples  down  the  bulk-head-  for  her.  Then  one  day  she 
sent  me  to  Charles  Henry's  on  an  errand,  but  the  young 
woman  was  going  as  far  as  the  Methodist  Church,  so  she 
went  too.  Next  time  she  trusted  me  alone.  And  once  she 
went  herself. 

And  so  it  went  till  I  got  pretty  strong.  But  I  could  n't 
say  much  to  her  to  bless  her.  And,  sir,  when  I  remembered 
me  of  what  had  happened  into  Jobbs's  —  and  of  the  drunken 
words  I  'd  spoke  to  drag  her  holy  name  acrost  that  mire 
—  I  was  as  staring  still  as  them  born  deef  and  dumb. 

If  there 's  anything  wuss  in  hell  than  what  I  underwent 
in  thinking  of  it,  I  'd  like  to  see  it,  sir,  that 's  all.  Talk 
about  fire,  brimstone,  smoke,  and  lakes,  and  that.  I  don't 
want  no  other  scorch. 

And  me  beneath  her  roof  —  a  lady's  roof  —  cared  for, 
and  sheltered  in,  and  nussed  —  and  with  the  chance  to  look 
up  any  hour,  if  I  would,  and  see  her  eyes  bent  towards  me, 
and  the  smiles  she  had. 

You  're  right,  sir,  he  would  n't  have  been  wuth  saving, 


842  KEBLITT. 

the  man  would  n't,  as  could  go  back  to  the  mud  after  a 
chance  like  that :  may  God  do  so  to  me,  and  more  also,  if  I 
ever  do,  so  help  me  Him  and  Her ! 

One  day  I  know  I  says  to  her,  for  I  'd  been  thinking  of 
it  over,  to  wonder  what  edged  her  on  to  do  it. 

"  It  can't  be  for  no  profit  nor  no  selfish  reason  that  I  can 
get  hold  of ;  it  must  be  for  humanity's  sake,"  says  I. 

But  she  come  up  to  me,  and  said  quite  soft :  — 

"  Call  it  for  Christ's  sake,  Mr.  Neblitt,"  says  she. 

Now  I  've  thought  a  sight  about  that  sence.  For  Christ's 
sake.  She  said  for  Christ's  sake.  Well,  if  that  was  it  — 
but  there 's  folks  that  hold  us  at  arm's-length  and  never 
steps  beside  a  poor  up-strugglin'  sinner  so  much  as  to  speak 
to  him  acrost  the  street  —  and  they  're  what  you  call  Chris 
tians  too,  you  see.  If  their  way  is  Christ's  way,  why  I 
should  take  it  her'n  was  n't.  And  if  her'n  is,  I  take  it 
their's  ain't.  So  there  it  is.  I  'm  a  ignorant,  onreligious 
man,  sir,  but  when  I  was  to  her  house  that  time,  I  read  in 
the  Testament  one  day  a  piece,  one  sunny  day  while  she 
was  Kind  o'  Gardenin  in  the  parlor  with  her  young  ones. 
Seems  to  me  her  way  is  more  like  His'n,  sir.  At  all  events, 
I  '11  bet  on  her'n,  however  that  may  be. 

So  at  last,  sir,  it  come  Christmas-time,  and  on  Christmas 
Eve  she  had  a  little  party  for  her  little  girl.  The  young 
woman  and  I  —  her  name  was  Jinny,  —  Jinny  and  I,  we 
carried  the  oysters  in,  and  the  cake  and  things.  But  after 
the  folks  had  gone,  and  the  young  one  was  in  bed,  I  went 
and  wandered  about  a  spell  through  the  kitchen  and  the 
room  she  'd  gin  me  in  the  L,  —  a  warm  room,  sir ;  I  was  n't 
used  to  having  a  warm  room  in  the  winter-time,  —  and  it 
had  patchwork  on  the  bureau  of  a  blue  color,  and  a 
picture,  and  a  looking-glass ;  and  Jinny  kept  it  very  tidy 
for  me. 

I  felt  lonesome  and  down  about  my  mind  that  night ;  for 
I  knew  that  I  must  go,  and  I  had  n't  nobody  to  go  to,  nor 


NEBLITT.  343 

yet  to  go  with,  in  all  the  world,  sir,  —  only  the  yellow  dog 
that  she  'd  been  so  considerate  of  and  let  him  sleep  into  the 
wood-shed  all  that  while. 

And  while  I  set  there  beside  the  kitchen  fire,  the  young 
woman  come  out.  Jinny  come  out.  It  was  Christmas  Eve 
that  Jinny  come  to  me,  and  said  :  — 

"  Ain't  you  lonesome,"  says  she,  "  setting  all  alone  ?  " 

"  I  'in  going  to  the  boarding-house  to-morrow,"  says  I, 
"  I  've  plagued  her  long  enough." 

"  Well !  "  says  Jinny. 

"  Well,"  says  I.     And  then  we  come  to  a  halt. 

"  How  many  years,"  asks  Jinny,  "  is  it  since  your  wife 
died,  Mr.  Neblitt  ?  " 

"  Don't  talk  to  me  about  my  wife  !  "  says  I,  for  I  thought 
it  strange  in  Jinny.  I  wondered  if  the  girl  was  sparking  ; 
she  usially  so  modest,  and  I  felt  no  call  that  way.  But  the 
young  woman  she  went  on  without  seeming  to  take  a-no- 
tice  :  — 

"  And  your  children,"  says  she,  —  "  did  all  your  children 
die,  too,  and  leave  you  —  leave  you  "  —  and  there  the  young 
woman  begun  to  sob  for  sympathy,  —  "  all  alone  in  the 
world,  poor  man,"  says  Jinny  ;  "  all  alone  with  none  to 
claim  you  on  a  Christmas  Day  ! "  says  Jinny. 

"  All  alone,"  says  I,  for  I  was  sot  I  would  n't  cry  over 
it,  "  only  the  yellow  dog,  —  and  Her  we  leave  behind  us  in 
this  house.  We  're  going  now,  the  dog  and  me,  to  under 
take  to  be  better  men,  because  of  Her.  Don't  forget  us, 
Jinny,"  says  I,  "  and  don't  cry  !  " 

Now,  sir,  that  very  minute,  as  I  set  by  the  kitchen  fire, 
saying,  "  Don't  cry,  Jinny  !  "  this  happened :  The  young 
woman  come  up  and  put  her  hand  upon  my  arm,  and  says 
she  :  — 

"  Fa-ther  ?  "  like  that ;  "  fa-ther  ?  " 

«  Omy  GW/"saysL 

"  It 's  true,"  says  Jinny,     "  It  's  true,  true,  true  !     An.l 


844  NEBLITT. 

we  knew  it  from  the  first.  For  she  took  me  seven  years 
ago.  But  she  would  n't  let  on  when  she  found  you  out. 
'  Wait  till  he 's  earned  a  daughter,'  says  she  to  me  ;  '  wait, 
Jinny,  till  he  's  fit,'  says  she.  O  father,  father,  father !  " 
says  Jinny.  Just  like  that. 

Well,  sir,  it 's  a  curious  story,  but  a  true ;  I  won't  bother 
you  to  tell  you  any  more  ;  I've  talked  a  long  spell.  But  it 
was  all  as  Jinny  said,  and  they  explained  to  me  how  she  'd 
took  her  from  a  County -house  and  cared  for  her,  and  how 
they  planned  between  'em  to  save  me,  sir,  when  fust  they 
come  to  live  our  way  and  heerd  my  name. 

It  was  my  daughter,  sir.  I  had  n't  seen  her  since  she 
was  two  years  old.  It  was  my  little  girl. 

And,  sir,  she  let  me  stay.  She  wanted  a  man  about  the 
house  for  many  things  she  said,  in  odd  hours  after  mills 
were  out,  and  for  feeling  safer  in  the  night-time,  and  for  er 
rands  in  wet  weather.  She  let  us  take  the  L  and  fix  it  up, 
me  and  Jinny,  —  the  room  with  the  blue  bureau  and  Jinny's 
room,  and  a  cook-room  of  our  own,  where  we  have  our 
meals  together  that  we  get  ourselves,  for  to  give  us  the 
feeling  of  a  home  to  our  two  selves,  she  says,  —  and  the 
yellow  dog  besides. 

I  never  had  to  go  out  from  the  blessin'  of  her  presence, 
sir.  I  never  had  to  go  where  I  could  n't  hear  her  voice,  nor 
see  her  shadder  on  the  floor,  nor  see  her  kiss  her  little  girl. 
Me  and  my  little  girl,  we  live  in  the  shelter  of  her.  May 
Heaven  bless  her  ! 

Now  there 's  one  other  other  thing.  It  was  about  New 
Year's  time.  There  come  a  message  to  me  one  day  at  the 
.Club  meetin'  that  Ram  Peterweigh  'd  got  hurt.  He  got 
jammed  into  the  elevator  very  bad,  and  they  thought  he 
could  n't  last.  So  he  wanted  to  see  me  most  particulerlay, 
and  I  went  over  to  his  house. 

I  found  him  pretty  low,  for  it  was  an  awful  jam.    And  he 


-NEBLITT.  345 

died  next  day.  But  he  asked  me  if  I  thought  She  'd  deign 
to  come  and  make  a  prayer  for  him.  So  I  went  for  her, 
and  she  came  and  made  the  prayer,  and  set  by  him,  and 
Ram  he  seem  to  feel  a  sight  easier  in  his  mind  for  it.  For 
he  'd  never  been  a  pious  man. 

"  If  there  was  more  like  her "  —  Ram  says  ;  but  he 
stopped  there,  for  he  was  very  low. 

Only  when  she  was  gone  into  t'  other  room  with  his  wife 
to  hush  the  baby,  he  turned  to  me  and  says  :  — 

"  Neb,  I  'm  done  for." 

"  I  'm  afraid  so,"  says  I. 

"  But  I  can't  die  easy,"  says  Ram,  "  till  I  tell  you  what  it 
was  you  said  at  Jobbs's." 

I  felt  myself  run  cold,  sir,  for  I  wanted  to  forget  it  if  I 
could,  and  lest  she  should  overhear.  But  to  humor  him, 
being  a  dying  man,  I  asked  him  what  it  was.  But  I  sat  all 
of  a  tremble  to  be  told. 

"  You  took  the  tumbler,"  says  Ram,  but  he  groaned  out 
awfully.  "  You  took  it  up,  and  says  :  '  God  bless  Her !  ' 
Upon  my  honor  as  a  dying  man,  that  was  every  mortal 
word.  You  God  blessed  Her,  in  the  rum"  says  Ram,  "  may 
Him  and  you  and  She  forgive  me  ! " 

But  with  that  he  sank  into  a  sort  of  doze,  and  when  She 
was  not  needed,  we  went  home  to  Jinny,  and  to  tell  her  how 
it  was. 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


ill 
1956  |jf 


LD  21-100m-2,'55 
(B139s22)476 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


M504966 


